


A Cat In Gloves: Part 2

by esoemp



Series: A Cat in Gloves [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Apologies, Case Fic, Confused Sherlock, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Dubious Consent, F/M, Full on Angst, Light BDSM, Manipulative Sherlock, Masturbation, Messy Experiments Gone Awry, Mildly Dubious Consent, References to Addiction, References to Drugs, Sex, Sherlock Holmes Has No Boundaries, Sherlock Holmes is Bad at Feelings, finally sex, that took forever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-18 08:34:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 32
Words: 21,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9376955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esoemp/pseuds/esoemp
Summary: Samantha begins working at 221B but is somewhat unaware of the deal Angela and Sherlock struck before she was hired on. Shenanigans ensue.“Ok, but WHY are you studying intestines?” Samantha whined as she mopped up the blood splatter from around the sink. “How many times do you need to do it?”Sherlock opened his mouth to explain the intricacies of the decomposition of human flesh but Samantha interrupted again.“Haven’t you ever heard of the Body Farm? It’s in the states, but you could probably figure whatever you’re on about from their studies you know.”Sherlock closed his mouth. It wasn’t worth explaining. Only yanks would refer to an outdoor laboratory where you could study corpses in a controlled variable setting as a “body farm” anyway.John sipped his tea and turned over a page of the newspaper. John didn’t ask questions about his projects. John just accepted. Samantha had not. She would need some more educational materials. Or a distraction.





	1. I Guess I’m An Underwater Thing

**Author's Note:**

> Part 2 of A Cat With Gloves
> 
> Please note: There are some dubious consent/non-con/ potentially triggering elements coming up in the second part of the series. I'm sure my interpretation of Sherlock's character may not be everyone's cup of tea, but please bear with me, and feel free to leave any comments or suggestions as to how I can improve my writing!

“Ok, but WHY are you studying intestines?” Samantha whined as she mopped up the blood splatter from around the sink. “How many times do you need to do it?” 

Sherlock opened his mouth to explain the intricacies of the decomposition of human flesh but Samantha interrupted again.

“Haven’t you ever heard of the Body Farm? It’s in the states, but you could probably figure whatever you’re on about from their studies you know.”

Sherlock closed his mouth. It wasn’t worth explaining. Only yanks would refer to an outdoor laboratory where you could study corpses in a controlled variable setting as a “body farm” anyway.

John sipped his tea and turned over a page of the newspaper. John didn’t ask questions about his projects. John just accepted. Samantha had not. She would need some more educational materials. _Or a distraction._

True to her word, Samantha had come to their flat after her job at the lab to clean every day for the last few weeks. The first few days she tentatively measured every glance in her direction for acceptance of her condition. And looked around every corner for…? Burglars, he supposed. As though he’d allow miscreants to enter the flat. Either he or John would make swift work of an intruder. A quick snap of the neck, a fire poker to the back of the skull, or perhaps a bullet in the brain. Then a call to the police for body transport. Samantha had never witnessed any of these attacks, and he and John intended to keep it that way. She really was a superb maid.

No Samantha was more concerned about whether she’d catch him dismembering a body. Which he didn’t do at the flat either. Specimens were delivered to him via police custody or by Mycroft’s people. It was completely harmless _and_ legal.

Numerous times Sherlock had caught her looking through the articles he’d purposely left on his desk and thumbing through several books in his study when she didn’t think he was observing. The poor girl hadn’t seemed to grasp that he was _always_ observing. Once he saw her take off her gloves and poke one of the eyeballs in the fridge. He had actually smiled. But his favorite Samantha-ism was the childlike wonder he’d see in her eyes when he and John discussed their cases. She pretended not to listen but as the details became more sordid her hands would move in slower strokes, her brows knitting in deep concentration. Sometimes despite himself Sherlock would pace towards the kitchen so she could hear him better deduce his theories. When he rolled his eyes or ridiculed John he could hear her stifled laugh in the background. It pleased Sherlock to know that as much as he was watching her she was watching him. Up until he met Samantha, John was the only one who’d accepted him for what he was—a brilliant detective with extraordinarily poor social skills. What he lacked in sensitivity he more than made up for with entertainment value. Sherlock never anticipated having a friend. The idea that he might have two was unimaginable. Like having pets.

_"Oh my god it’s…hatching?”_ Samantha stood over an incubator enthralled with his latest experiment. “I thought this was just another organ…is that…is that a _snake_?”

“Dendroaspis polylepis.” Sherlock stood up from his chair.

“Where did you get it?” Her eyes were wild with interest and she beamed at him. There it was—the look that bowled him over with delight.

“In—” Sherlock began in his most subdued _I’m so glad you asked Samantha_ voice.

“The corpse of an exotic pet salesman.” John finished dully as he turned another page and took a bite out of his biscuit. “You know Sherlock instead of showing off maybe you could make an effort in deducing something about these bodies showing up all over London. All missing their hands?”

Sherlock growled a little and shut the incubator. “Because _John_ , I already know who did it. The way in which the limbs were severed is consistent with the punishment for traitors within Napoliani Syndicate. They were all butchered in the same fashion and the saw marks were identical. I told Lestrade. What _else_ would you have me do?”

“But they haven’t been able to find any evidence. And you are good at finding evidence.” John took another bite and narrowed his eyes at Samantha, who was still smitten with the black mamba baby squirming its way out of the pet salesman’s liver. “When you want to.”

“Samantha,” Sherlock asked territorially, “Would you like to help with a case?”

“YES!!!!” Samantha grabbed his arm and grinned with unfettered excitement.

Sherlock startled but nodded in approval. Just like pets. John folded his paper and eyed Sherlock coldly.

“We’ll need Angela’s help though. Are you still alright with that?” Sherlock addressed the question to Samantha but kept his eyes level with John’s.

“Yes.” Expectedly Samantha’s tone dropped. He really thought if he could have taken her to the gala instead of her alter ego he would have in that moment—if only to please her. But this operation required someone with less childlike wonder and a great deal of subtle manipulation and seductiveness. Samantha possessed neither of those qualities.

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth curled slightly at John. “Excellent. It would be most appreciated. How shall we …get in touch with her?”

John grabbed his paper and left in a huff. Apparently this conversation was too rich for his self-righteous blood. John was the one who requested Sherlock help the police. There was only one way to proceed. With Angela.

“Umm…Well, I don’t exactly know…Angela just sort of shows up.”

Sherlock turned to her to get a better view of her expressions. This was interesting. “And when does she show up?”

Samantha let out a nervous laugh and looked away, “When I don’t want her to? Usually it’s because I’m scared of doing…something. The world just goes white and I’m gone. Oh! But sometimes I can hear her thoughts!” She blushed.

“I’ve never heard of such a thing with Multiple Personality Disorder.” Sherlock was blatantly surprised. It was a well-known fact the different personas of people with dissociative identity disorder did not communicate. Each personality possessed completely different memories and behavioral characteristics. Most were frequently unaware they shared a body.

“Oh I don’t have MPD.” Samantha shrugged. “I have a dissociative disorder. It’s a lot like MPD and there’s overlap. But it’s different. Sometimes I don’t remember what she does, and sometimes it’s like I’m watching myself on TV. Usually screaming for her to stop.” She fidgeted with her gloves. “Since it’s not voluntary I don’t know how to let her…take control. Plus she’s been quiet ever since I started working here. Maybe it’s because she hates cleaning.” Samantha grinned at this last remark.

Would Samantha have volunteered so much about herself if she hadn’t wanted to help work a case? But that was beside the point. The most important matter was how to reach her other half in time for dinner.

“Is she saying anything now?” Sherlock wasn’t going to hold back. He desperately wanted to know more. At the very least he needed to know for the sake of The Work.

Samantha relaxed her shoulders and furrowed her brows in concentration. It was sort of cute. _Dear God, what is wrong with me,_ he wondered.

“She said she’ll do it, that you had but only to ask,” Samantha recounted Angela’s words as though they weren’t her own. Which he supposed they weren’t. Not exactly. He was struck by the impulse to solve this dilemma of mental illness for her sake. Though not yet. Tonight he was going to take Angela to the ball.


	2. I Am Not Immune to Your Net

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angela deigns to assist Sherlock on a case. But there are conditions that must be met.

It took several hours and some bribery for Samantha to ‘get into the zone’ apparently. Angela wanted to buy a new dress and for Samantha to fetch her Cartier earrings. Angela _would_ help, but only if it was on her terms. Begrudgingly Sherlock offered to help pay for the dress in an attempt to make amends for Samantha’s disappointment and because she looked so helpless with embarrassment at the request.

 

Sherlock suspected Angela was taking advantage of Samantha’s intense desire to be of use to him and John. Well, to himself mostly.

 

Finally, Samantha arrived at the flat dressed in a sleeveless ivory gown. The taffeta fabric swirled around her curves and exposed her shoulders just enough for the diamond earrings to graze her collarbones enticingly. She was a vision—a more than adequate distraction for their purposes. Samantha blushed furiously at his appraisal but made no protestations. John stood against the doorframe admiring her but with his arms crossed in some disapproval. Not as much as he’d had before _‘the dress’_ Sherlock noted with amusement.

 

Samantha wobbled her way on the stilettos over to the sofa lacking any sort of grace and glanced up apologetically. “I umm…Sorry, but Angela said I was going to have to go to take off my gloves and sleep,” Samantha mumbled glumly, “for her to ‘make an entrance’.”

 

Sherlock had to forcibly restrain himself from rolling his eyes with impatience. “Very well.” John snickered in the corner.

 

“Ah, can you not watch me?” She reclined as best she could without crumpling the dress and pulled back her hair to rest against the pillow.

 

Sherlock felt like he would miss something very important but joined John at the kitchen table. After a couple minutes he couldn’t contain his curiosity. “Would it help if you had some brandy?”

 

“NO…no thank you,” came the muffled reply with a yawn. “I’m actually pretty tired all of the sudden. I’ve never done this willingly before so…”

 

Half an hour passed before Samantha rose from the pillow and stretched. _Very catlike_. His third pet then. Angela stood and turned to face the two men at the table and flashed her teeth. “Shall we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title take from Tori Amos' "Digital Ghost"


	3. Been Workin’ It Since I’z Fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things heat up when Sherlock finds out Angela's bark may not be as strong as her bite when it comes to Sherlock.   
> Mistakes were made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from Tori Amos' "Teenage Hustling"
> 
> Ok, y'all. Please don't kill me. What follows is my interpretation of Sherlock being Sherlock and not thinking of how his behavior affects those around him when he's playing a role in the interest of an investigation. Please don't judge me too harshly. Fair warning though, things are going to get more dubious in future chapters of Part 2. Again this is based on my personal experiences with dissociation and how it can affect others.

Angela was easily the most noticeable woman in the crowd at the villa. Two businessmen were already hanging on to her every word at the bar and Sherlock watched as she issued a stream of melodic laughter, which he assumed to be in response to some outlandish anecdote one of the men had shared. They might be the upper echelons of society, but they were by no means clever enough to entertain her. He hoped. Men became foolish for her in her presence. Hence why a mere grad student could sport a pair of couture diamond earrings for a night out on the town. The string of teardrops dangled enticingly around her earlobes and drew attention to her pale neck, directing one’s eyes downward to her décolletage and back up to her mouth in a way that would short circuit any man’s brain.

Angela locked eyes with Sherlock from across the dance floor momentarily before turning her attention to back to her target, one Mr. Barnes.

Theodore Barnes had just ascended to notoriety as the head of the newest crime syndicate in London. His wealth and influence—along with several of the police force in his pockets—had made obtaining any evidence connecting him to the handless bodies popping up around the city nearly impossible. Angela had already captivated the mob mogul and Sherlock grinned internally as she slid her hand along the Barnes’ arm and moved into closer proximity. She had done well to keep him entertained. Her efforts had allowed Sherlock the opportunity to go through the files in his office undetected. Still, he found no concrete evidence. Something had to be done. Angela murmured a seductive comment to Barnes as he proffered her yet another glass of champagne. Sherlock saw the man’s breath hitch—that was his cue.

In a precipitous burst of energy Sherlock pushed past the other partygoers and made a beeline to Angela. Her eyes lit with confusion and indignation as he grabbed her arm tightly and jerked her away from her quarry. Barnes stood in befuddled shock as he held her champagne glass and watched as his two guests exited into the hallway.

“ _WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”_ She shrieked, attempting to extricate herself from his grip. “I WAS ALMOST—”

Sherlock swung her around and slammed her up against the mahogany wood paneling as gently as possible, startling a mischievous looking couple nearby in the more secluded part of the corridor. He glared at them venomously. They took the hint and judiciously re-entered the party. Sherlock smiled in triumph as he heard their disgruntled whispers. It would only be a matter of time now…

“What am I doing?” Sherlock hissed loudly at Angela’s panic stricken face. “ _What are YOU doing, you filthy slut_?” He sneered and felt her body shudder and grow hot. She struggled against his audaciousness as he raised her arms above her head.

 “ _FUCK YOU, ASSHOLE! Let me go! Are you insane? I almost—_ ”

But Sherlock couldn’t allow her to finish that sentence. This gamble had to be convincing, and there was no time to explain. With one quick stroke he had both her hands clasped in one of his, forcing his other up to her mouth. He silenced her impending scream by thrusting his index and middle finger into her mouth and securing her tongue. Angela stiffened in terror. Sherlock sorely wished she could read his mind but for now he needed her to play along. Noting the security cameras, he inserted his left knee between her thighs and leaned closer. Two shadows loomed out of the corner of his eye near the door. He grinned lasciviously and feigned enjoyment of the little whimper that struggled from her throat.

 _“Watch your mouth,”_ he growled and buried his face in her neck, running his tongue coarsely across her jawline. _“I don’t recall giving you permission to speak.”_ Angela squirmed as he licked and sucked at her collarbone. Listening to the cadence of her heartbeat and sensing the temperature of her skin he could tell which areas were truly erogenous. He felt her hips buck against him, but her resistance was waning. If she didn’t struggle this would not work. He emitted a low chuckle and slid his tongue along the rim of her earlobe. _“I can smell your arousal you know. What a delicious scent…a mix of lavender and the ocean…Would you like me to continue?”_

Angela groaned and shook her head weakly as little teardrops accumulated around the edges of her lashes. Saliva trickled out of the corners of her mouth and onto his knuckles. Her expression was so erotic it became uncomfortably laborious to focus on the purpose of this charade… _So much data of her I didn’t know._ With startling clarity he realized after tonight she would never permit him such an opportunity again.

The echo of methodical footsteps approached from the far end of the corridor. _Finally_. The bait had been set but Barnes could have no doubt. The stiffening erection in Sherlock’s pants certainly added to the believability of the scene. _Why wasn’t Barnes saying anything?_

She was writhing and imploring him now, though he could no longer be certain if she wanted him to stop anymore or continue the assault. With superhuman effort he forced himself to focus on Barnes, who stood silent only a few feet away. _Not much of a gentleman are you Theodore?_

Angela was panting now. To his astonishment he felt one of her nipples harden and graze his elbow. Much to his horror, he had begun huffing with desperate need himself.

 _Stop me, you bloody fool,_ Sherlock cursed at their voyeur savagely.

Barnes was known to acquire his women the same way he did his possessions, his territory, and his goons—with excessive violence. Sherlock counted on it. But Barnes _wasn’t_ attacking him. He was _watching him_. If Angela _was_ going to gain access to his good graces, Barnes would have to get a show.

Sherlock grimaced as he nudged around the corner of her neck and bit down—hard—elucidating a gasp of pain from his captive. Her head reared in shock and her body seized convulsively as she tipped over the edge in a shuddering orgasm. He marveled at the wonder of her release, momentarily forgetting the swine that remained impassive to her entreaties as he watched another man ravage her. Angela’s body slumped forward, unable to hold up the weight of her shaking legs. The look of humiliation on her face was unmistakable and tears streamed across her reddened cheeks. Sherlock averted his eyes from hers in disgrace and numbly removed his fingers from her mouth—even then resisting the urge to taste them in an effort to gather more data.

 _He had gone too far. She would never forgive him._ Their alliance was all but over and suddenly the apprehension of a kingpin like Theodore Barnes didn’t seem so terribly important. Sherlock searched her face and opened his mouth to speak, but found himself speechless.

“I’ll thank you to remove your hands from the lady,  _sir_.” Barnes’ voice dripped with scorn but bellied his amusement.

“I’m afraid she is rather occupied at the moment,” Sherlock snarled without turning his head. “Perhaps you should return to the party.” _And find yourself some other rare bird_. He felt the pressure of Barnes’ palm closing around his left bicep as he saw Angela’s eyes locked downward in an agonizingly vacant stare. Defeat was inevitable. He could not risk killing this man here. As he spun around to face Barnes, Angela sank onto the floor in a crumpled heap. “This is none of your concern,” he spat through clenched teeth.

Barnes sneered with malice as he released his grip on the detective’s arm. “I think you’ve had enough fun for the night. And I’ll thank you to leave before I have my men escort you out. Forcibly if necessary.” His eyes drifted towards Angela’s motionless form covetously—an expression that repulsed Sherlock to his core.

Barnes’ interference on Angela’s behalf was certainly the outcome Sherlock had hoped to achieve. She was most definitely “in” as of this moment—but abandoning her to the whims of this beast seemed too precarious to fathom anymore. _Still_ , he reasoned, Angela’s dishonor would go without merit if he allowed his feelings of chivalry to get the better of him here. In disgust he acknowledged he had already crossed a line into brutishness and was possibly no better than Barnes. Samantha begged to take part in the sting operation, and the current situation provided an unparalleled opportunity for her to gather Intel on their target. As far as Barnes was concerned she was no one of importance, and his guard would remain down if she could simply stay quiet and observe as she played the role of a rescued damsel in distress. Of course now she really _was_ a rescued damsel in distress in every sense of the phrase. Sherlock assured himself the rumors about Barnes’ sexual appetite did not venture into the dominion of rape, though they clearly involved voyeurism. Logically she _should_ be safe enough from Barnes’ advances—at least for tonight—and they could regroup at the flat later that evening for much deserved explanations and apologies.

“As you wish then.” With a quick glance back at Angela’s lifeless figure he strode back down the hall, gritting his teeth and hoping like hell he was right.


	4. You Play Wounded In His Cockpit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from Tori Amos' "Teenage Hustling"

Sherlock swung himself into the car waiting at the corner outside the villa. “Drive,” he snapped at John, who looked around for Angela then shifted the car into gear. The idea that Theodore Barnes was touching an unconscious Angela at that very moment raced through his fevered brain. He jostled his legs in aggravation. How long would they have to wait till she returned?

“Well?” John began with a worried look. Sherlock didn’t know what sort of expression he made but the color drained from his partner’s face. John sized him up and rubbed his mouth with his thumb—John’s What-the-fuck-did-you-just-fucking-do-Sherlock? expression—before he returned his gaze to the road. 

For a long time they rode together in complete silence, neither man wanting to discuss what each must know to be true. They had just left Samantha at the mercy of Theodore Barnes—crime boss and sadistic murderer.

“I’ll have Mycroft send a car for her,” Sherlock said abruptly. 

“Sure you want big brother to know about Samantha?” John snorted in disbelief, “We all know how much you loathe the idea of asking for his help.” Then continued venomously, “How the bloody hell could you leave her there Sherlock? You said you were just going to have her distract Barnes while you cased the place and that would be all for tonight!”

“The plan changed. She’s in John. Have some faith, for Gods sake.” But Sherlock didn’t have any faith after leaving Angela in that condition. She was too vulnerable to function as an objective observer after he’d tipped her over the edge. It never occurred to him such a thing could happen. Samantha’s body was so very responsive. Suddenly Sherlock winced with another realization. What if she wasn’t Angela anymore? The thought of the naïve intern slash maid trying to wade through the minutiae of a criminal organization struck terror into his addled psyche. Sherlock removed his phone from inside his suit pocket and dialed Mycroft’s number.

“What have you done now Sherlock?” came his brother’s snide reply.


	5. Here's A Flower For Your Grave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from Tori Amos' "Posse Bonus"

“I’m fine! I’m fine!” Samantha laughed as she tottered into the flat, escorted by one of Mycroft’s minions. John and Sherlock both jumped to their feet at her arrival. John sank back into the chair, running thick hands through his sandy hair in apparent relief she was in one piece. _Or two. Whatever_.

Sherlock merely looked nervous. Samantha found the idea that he’d been worried about her touching and tried to reassure him again. “It’s not like it’s the first time I’ve woken up somewhere strange!” Neither of the men registered the joke and it was her turn to feel nervous. “Did I mess up?” she croaked, hoping against hope not to disappoint them.

“I. No, you didn’t.” Sherlock stammered a bit then added emphatically, “You were brilliant.”

Samantha wanted to hop for joy, relief washing over her in thick waves. She beamed having received praise from her idol. “Ok, so check this out, Barnes is going to a charity gala tomorrow night. I overheard him telling one of his goons to make sure ‘it was ready for shipment at 8’ in a sketchy kind of way while I pretended I was still asleep on the couch.” Both men shot anxious looks at her. “ _No NO_ , Angela must have pretended to faint or something…or she got bored. She does that sometimes.” She paused sheepishly then added, “Really. I was perfectly safe.”

“He didn’t… touch you did he?” John’s face hardened. Sherlock remained mute.

“Nope, he was a perfect gentleman. So I did my best Angela impression and pretended to be some wilting southern flower or other—said I had to go home to water my cats.” Samantha felt a significant boost of satisfaction in teasing these two men. “I’m kidding! I’m kidding! When I heard one of his guys tell him my car had arrived I thanked him for a lovely evening and left.” Still not receiving more of the praise she had ultimately been seeking, she mumbled, “I know it’s not a lot of info. I’m sorry.”

“I’m just glad you’re ok.” John managed to say with a forced smile. “Goodnight, Samantha,” he said as he got up from the chair then added malevolently, “Sherlock.”

“John.” Sherlock nodded without looking at his partner leaving the room.

“What’s going on with you two?” Samantha looked at the departing figure of the Good Doctor and back to Sherlock in concern. “Was the information that bad?”

Sherlock shook his head. “No. It’s fine. Really, you _were_ brilliant. Thank you, Samantha. You should go home and rest now. You have work tomorrow.”

“Ugh,” she groaned and stretched her arms. “You guys need me again tomorrow night?” Samantha knew she sounded a bit too hopeful. Tonight had been magical—she’d finally gotten to take part in the chase and the rush was intense. Her legs still felt weak from the adrenaline coursing through her body. “Sherlock?” She asked, noting the look of distraction from the detective. _His brain is probably in overdrive turning over permutations and calculations for tomorrow night_.

“Hmm…Yes. NO.” he stated emphatically meeting her gaze. “Thank you, but I think John and I can take it from here.”

“Ok,” she pouted, then made her back to the door. “Thanks again for letting me help! It was fun!” She tried to make her voice sound more cheerful than disappointed. Samantha forced a smile before skipping down the stairs and out the door.


	6. Do A Dance For Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has a wank. (yep)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from Tori Amos' "Welcome to England"

This was bad. This was _very, very bad_. Sherlock’s behavior at the gala was John’s exact definition of _Not Good_. It was only a matter of time before Angela alerted Samantha of his transgression. _Or would she?_ But if Angela did— _what would Samantha think of him?_ _What did Angela think of him?_ After coming up empty in Barnes’ office he made a calculated, rational decision and the ploy to gain information had worked. Samantha was safe. _For now anyway_. How long till Barnes started looking for her? _The way he looked at her_ …Sherlock shuddered slightly at the idea of Barnes using her to fulfill his sick fantasies. Which produced another problem in and of itself, because he had a few fantasies about Angela and Samantha of his own.

Sherlock had been replaying the scene and all the data he gathered from last night ever since John had left the flat. John had an uncanny ability to recognize when his friend was facing a particularly challenging dilemma in the realm of human interactions. Sherlock knew he had the same longings and cravings as any other human being—he just wasn’t comfortable with them. They distracted him from The Work and he couldn’t afford to sacrifice anything for his body’s baser instincts. There was only one solution he reasoned. He’d have to have a wank.

Sherlock checked the doors. Locked. Checked his phone. Half an hour till John returns. Good. Plenty of time. Rolling his eyes at himself he positioned himself on the couch where Samantha had laid the night before. It still smelled of lavender. Excellent. Good start. Not a pervert. Just taking care of a reprehensible human need. Closing his eyes he opened his mind palace and strode into the little room he’d constructed for his maid. He wondered briefly if he wasn’t supposed to imagine her wearing one of those ridiculously gawdy French maid dresses while waving a feather duster on his lap to get off faster. He’d seen John looking at something like that on one of his pornographic sites two weeks ago before he left for his room. Samantha had only been working a week then. _Not good._ _Must not think_ of John and Samantha right now. Sherlock walked briskly to John’s room in his palace and stuck a sticky note on the door. No time for elegance here. Must get back to Samantha and Angela’s apartment. John would be home soon.

Samantha’s chamber had been decorated with all her interests—psychology, astronomy, snakes, her infatuation with him, and Angela’s Cartier diamond teardrop earrings, fabulous dresses, and stilettos. An array of Samantha’s various gloves had been meticulously catalogued under glass near the entrance. Sherlock imagined showing her this place, full of books and memories and the data he’d gathered since they met. Only three weeks of observing her and she had a room in his palace? Hmmm…must add another sticky note in his study down the hall for further examination.

And speaking of sticky notes…Her tongue had been sticky and slippery in his fingers. He regarded the painting he’d hung of Angela’s expression in that moment above a gilded mantelpiece—the eroticism of her countenance would be memorialized in her palatial chamber indefinitely. Sherlock palmed his stiffening erection through his silk boxers before sliding his hands under the waistband and massaging his foreskin with lube. His bollocks tensed and pressed into his perineum. This was good but not quite right. In fact he was sure he wasn't doing it right. The point wasn’t to measure his physical response to arousal. He was absolutely _aching_ with need. _Case closed._

Shutting his eyes again he focused on her face. Her saliva dripping out of her mouth onto his fingers pressing firmly against her soft lips. Angela had opted not to wear lipstick last night and this gave him _all sorts_ of wonderful data. Aside from their customarily more tactile functions they engorged the moment he touched her. While the conditions were less than ideal for their tryst her body’s signals were unmistakable. The dilation of her pupils was approximately 40% larger with him than when she’d been surrounded by those fools at the bar. Her heart rate and the temperature of her flesh rose and fell and rose again when he’d felt the surface of her clavicle and shoulders and neck with his tongue. The little whimpers and moans of pleasure that were so sweet and enticing had driven him wild with lust. Had they been alone he would have been able to go much— _much_ further exploring her. How he’d wanted to taste her arousal. The slickness of her desire was intoxicating. Sherlock rounded the head of his cock and began panting. His heartbeat quickened and he moaned as he pulled his shaft imagining pumping into her slowly at first then increasing the rhythm. Grinding into her with his hips and sucking on hard nipples as he groped the swell of her breasts. How exquisite would it have been to feel the contractions in the deepest part of her as she reached orgasm, to have tasted her mouth and heard her cry out in ecstasy...Then spilling himself into her in long slow pulses of pleasure. Sherlock jerked his head back and shuddered as he followed her into nothingness and everything.

Relieved of the physical burden of lust Sherlock proceeded to admire Samantha and Angela’s room with a sense of tenderness that was new to him. Perhaps he could visit more often.  


	7. Bang A Tango But Do Not Get Tangled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mystery of the gloves is revealed and Angela and Samantha have a talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from Tori Amos' "Welcome to England"

Samantha sat at her desk jiggling her knees and looking at her watch in agitation. It was almost time to leave. Almost time to go to 221B where she could be herself and clean the latest super gross concoction Sherlock had created in the kitchen. Almost time to watch him and John make plans to take down the Napoliani Syndicate. _ARGH._ She groaned then cringed as Alan startled then looked away self-consciously. It had only been a few weeks but Samantha had grown to cherish her time at the flat with the gentleness one might feel towards a second home. Sherlock and John accepted her as she was. No more hiding the shameful secret of her mental illness. It was heavenly.

It wasn’t as though Samantha hadn’t tried to ‘come out’ before to her friends and boyfriends. In the best circumstances they eyed her warily before distancing themselves. In the worst they took advantage of her fearful nature and capitalized on Angela’s sexuality. One boyfriend had even tried to pimp her out to his friends and coworkers. Angela ratted him out though, but only after she’d taken a beating for her resistance. The guy hadn’t walked away unscathed however. Angela left angry gashes on his face in the shape of clawed nails before making her escape.

However awkward Samantha felt about the existence of her other persona Angela protected her when she became so overwhelmed she wanted to run away. Somewhere along the way in her early adulthood the idea of sex had become scary.

One day while Samantha was engaged in a particularly heavy petting session with a guy from high school she realized she wasn’t sexually stimulated anymore but having a panic attack instead. That was the first time she heard Angela’s voice, suggesting she simply _relax and let go_. Samantha had been so full of fear that she didn't resist the mental intrusion. When she woke up, the guy was gone. He didn’t talk to her after that, but whenever she saw him at school his face reddened and he skirted past her in the hallway as quickly as possible. Even still, whenever she became aroused she would allow Angela to take over her body. Sometimes she could see glimpses of the things she was doing and felt the pleasure of release. But inevitably if she was with a guy long enough to get serious he would pick up on her mental illness and bolt. _I mean, I guess I would too._ Eventually Samantha began to shut Angela out of the control room. It was difficult, she got headaches and Angela fought her resentfully in verbal tooth and nail. When she got “out” Angela left a trail of havoc in her wake.

Samantha came up with an external solution—gloves. A girl wearing leather gloves might be cute or even sexy. But a girl wearing leather gloves _all the time every day every season_ was _definitely_ _weird_. Most guys who believed the story about her mysophobia seemed to recognize if she had a problem with germs they wouldn’t get very far in the bedroom. She felt ridiculous and embarrassed, but it kept her true illness a secret.

Surprisingly enough, it was Angela’s idea to study genetics and go back to school after the incident with the piece of shit boyfriend. He stalked her after Samantha tried to leave and finally she fled to Britain. Her student loans were the price she paid for her freedom. It was worth it though. Without the tribulations of her past she wouldn’t have the opportunity to visit to 221B Baker Street later today and enjoy her present. She was truly grateful for Angela’s interference this time.

The negotiation for Samantha to willingly allow Angela to take over when she wasn’t scared or aroused was a first. It was embarrassing to have Sherlock and John in the room but also comforting. She knew they wouldn’t let her do anything really crazy—like jumping them both and suggesting a ménage a trois. If Angela had said anything obscene to them with her mouth she’d rather die than see their faces when she returned to her body. Of course she didn’t know what happened after she fell asleep on the couch. Angela hadn’t allowed her to watch as she went on the investigation at Barnes’ house. Samantha wasn’t sure Angela even knew how to take her on as a “passenger”, or if the different parts of her consciousness would intermingle only under certain circumstances. If Sherlock had any experience in this area she would have asked. God, why did she tell him so much? Knowing him he just downloaded it to some corner of his mind palace where it could collect dust unless he needed it for a case. What an idea. _A mind palace._ Samantha smiled. That sounded like something Angela might have constructed. Hers would undoubtedly rival Versailles. Closing her eyes she imagined a representation of 221B in her mind, full of oddities, and warmth, and Sherlock. Smartly, she made sure it was clean of his bloodier experiments. The baby mamba could stay. He would be pacing about and elaborating on some brilliant deduction only he could have figured out. Opening her eyes she was puzzled to note John wasn’t there.

 _Don’t tell me that surprises you?_ Angela chuckled softly in amusement. The customary note of derision was absent from her tone and Samantha blushed. _He’s a genius detective Samantha, of course he’s noticed._

 _It can’t be like that though, Angela_ , Samantha thought with a lump in her throat. _You know it can’t._

 _Perhaps_ she admitted. _But then perhaps you shouldn’t sell yourself short either._

This was new. This was very, _very_ new. Angela _never_ praised her. _Wow…um…thanks. So…how was it last night?_

 _Delicious._ Angela wasn’t going to elaborate. That _wasn’t_ a surprise. If Samantha felt she had a right to her living her life without interference from Angela it seemed only natural Angela would want the same consideration.

Samantha hesitated. _Just one thing. Did that Barnes guy touch me?_ She felt rather than heard Angela shaking her head no and then yawning. _Ok. Good. Thanks. Another normal day in my weird little head._ Samantha sighed, wondering if the truce she and Angela had made would allow her to go out past curfew. _Angela_ , she ventured carefully, _would you…would you be agreeable to me letting you out more? IF you behave that is?_

Suddenly she realized she had Angela’s complete attention. Angela smiled in delight. _Oh, Samantha. I thought you’d never ask._


	8. Slip and Slide My Way Through This Charade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from Tori Amos' "Code Red"

I’m home! Samantha wanted to say, but settled for “It’s me!” instead. She had practically ran down the street from the tube station to the flat. Huffing a little bit she tried to straighten herself and looked around. John looked up and smiled. And Sherlock looked away. Was he _blushing_? No, that couldn’t be right. He must be angry. John probably said something just before she came in to make him pouty. _Adorable._

Samantha plopped her carryall down on the floor near the door and moved to retrieve the cleaning supplies from the hall closet. But when she got to the kitchen she stopped short. It was _still clean_. Her heart sank. What if they no longer needed her? The idea of Sherlock not continuing to make horrendous messes had not occurred to Samantha. She hurried to open the fridge and found it too in the same state of order. All the experiments remained in their gestation period and it wasn’t time to remove them. “Are these all still good?” She asked hopefully. Maybe she didn’t know what she was looking at and Sherlock would correct her.

“No. None of those are ready for disposal.” Sherlock’s reply was missing any hint of his usual authoritarianism. “Thank you for coming Samantha, but your services are not needed today.”

Samantha felt tears beginning to wet her eyes. “Ok! Well, that’s…great!” She waited for a response then added, “Oh! How is the case going? Perhaps I could—”

“Thank you, Samantha.” Sherlock stopped her coolly. “John and I have everything we need for tonight. You should go home.”

She didn’t understand. He had always been so eager to share his insights with her, to banter with John whenever she was there…

“Al—alright. Umm. Be careful then!” Samantha rushed to grab her carryall by the door and sprinted down the stairs. She didn’t want them to see the tears rushing down her cheeks.


	9. They Say That Your Demons Can't Go There

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from Tori Amos' "Beauty Queen - Horses"

“Well, that was shitty.” John announced putting down his paper. He scowled. “You couldn’t even _invent_ an experiment for her to clean up? It’s not like either of us know what you’re even doing anyway.”

John was right. On both counts. It hadn’t occurred to Sherlock he could formulate a project that would create suitably plausible disorder. Destroying the kitchen had always come as a natural consequence to his experiments. Defiling the room intentionally would have been wasteful and laborious. Besides, he had been unable to concentrate on anything other than Samantha today. Most specifically whether she would even show up for her maidly duties. Angela had had plenty of time to confide in her other self about last night’s events. Secondly, because of his earlier exploits in his silk pants. 

“There’s no help for it, John.” Sherlock rose from the chair and went to the window. There he observed Samantha running down the street with her head down. He didn’t have to be a detective to know she was in pain. “I _couldn’t_ make a bloody mess. And I _couldn’t_ risk her trying to join us tonight.”

John’s eyes widened at the sternness of his voice and choice of foul language, but said nothing. Sherlock prayed John wouldn’t call him on it. A few minutes passed as Sherlock bit against his thumbnail. He wanted to pace. But that would give John too much information. The one thing John was _really_ clever at besides marksmanship was reading Sherlock. The wait for John to pick up his paper again was agonizing.

But Sherlock could feel John staring at him. Deducing him. “You don’t…I mean… you _couldn’t_ …” John began.

Sherlock whirled to face him as though in doing so he could prevent John’s next words.

“Have a _crush_ on _Samantha_?” John’s mouth extended in one of the widest grins Sherlock had ever seen. It was horrifying.

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest. “Don’t be ridiculous John,” he wanted to exclaim. But the words fell silent between them. John’s eyebrows extended upwards and his pupils dilated 30% more as his little brain tried to grasp at the concept. _The bleeding twit_. _A crush._ Only John could make it sound so utterly childish. An _infatuation_ maybe. An interest for scientific reasons—more likely. Sherlock didn’t “do” friends and he most certainly didn’t “do” lovers. And John looked _so bloody happy_ for him. Sherlock snorted and turned back to the window.

John sighed in pleasure. “Oh, this is fun. Don’t worry Sherlock, I’m rooting for you all the way.”


	10. Threads That Are Golden Don't Break Easily

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from Tori Amos' "Beauty Queen - Horses"

Samantha crashed into her dresser as she threw down her carryall in her apartment. She cried out in agony. She knew she was being childish. But it _wasn't fair_. _She_ acquired the Intel on Barnes’ shipment. _And_ she could help again. Asking her to help him the night before and then shutting her out of the conversation was too cruel even for Sherlock. Had she done something to make him lose faith in her? Was he no longer confident in her abilities? Her mind reeled through a thousand possible scenarios as she felt the welt rise on her knee. Her phone rang and she practically crawled to her carryall in an effort to catch the call fast enough. She hoped it was Sherlock. Or John. Calling for Sherlock. Or John explaining to her what happened. She didn’t care as long as the call came from 221B Baker Street.

But the number was from an unknown caller. “Hello?” She sniffed and tried to level her voice.

“Angela.” A seductive male voice cooed in her ear. She recoiled.

“Yes? Who is this?” She didn’t care how she sounded. She didn’t have time for games.

“Theodore Barnes. You _do_ remember me don’t you? I had such a lovely time with you last night before you became… _indisposed_. I was hoping we could continue our earlier conversation tonight. I’m holding a charity gala this evening and was hoping you would join me.”

Samantha balked and covered her mouth. _Lemme talk to him!_ Angela shrieked in her head. It didn’t matter that Sherlock and John weren't going to include her. If she was able to run interference on Barnes again or—even better—get some dirt that would expose his criminal background Sherlock would have to acknowledge he’d screwed up by shutting her out of the case. Samantha took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and let herself go.


	11. She Said Get In And Set The SatNav to Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samantha is a co-pilot on her first mission.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from Tori Amos' "Fire to Your Plain"

Theodore Barnes was not bad looking for an underworld criminal and potential axe murderer. He held out his hand and Angela sauntered up the steps to the mansion with enviable grace. Samantha felt herself smile. _This WAS fun_. “This place is divine Mr. Barnes,” Angela purred as she let him take her arm in his.

“Thank you, my dear.” The look Theodore gave her was repulsive. Sherlock never looked her at that way.

 _Concentrate, honey_. Angela wasn’t accustomed to having a passenger who wasn’t actively restrained in her mind. Samantha nodded. She was completely out of her element but fascinated by how seamlessly Angela slipped into her character. So elegant and seductive. Everything she wasn’t. _I can still hear you Samantha_. _But, thank you. Let’s take this piece of shit down. That will earn you substantial praise from your knight in shining armor._

Samantha was blushing again. Barnes must have thought this was directed at him and seemed pleased. With effortless grace they meandered through the crowd. Barnes introduced her to dozens of associates whose names she would never remember. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed an abundance of men in black suits with ear sets guarding the exits. This was disconcerting but plausible given the clientele of this particular event.

 _God, these earrings are heavy_ Samantha commented mentally. _Where did you even get these?_  

Angela smiled. _The boyfriend from Brazil. He liked to see me wear them when we—_

 _OK STOP! Sorry I asked!_ Samantha had no idea Angela was so popular. She pondered whether she could sell them to pay off her debts.

 _Do it and you’ll regret it the rest of our life._ Angela warned promptly as she smiled outwardly at another guest.

Samantha frowned. They were really pretty. And real.

 _Sherlock likes them._ Angela was playing dirty now.


	12. As Long As Your Army Keeps Perfectly Still

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from Tori Amos' "Beauty Queen - Horses"

Sherlock was aghast. But there she was. “The lady in blue” on Barnes’ arm was unmistakably Angela. _His lady in blue_. Of course the pervert would have gotten her number. John must have seen his friend’s expression because he snatched away the binoculars to see for himself what had Sherlock so flabbergasted.

“OH. SHIT.”

“My sentiments exactly, John.”

“What should we do?” It was obvious John wanted to abort the mission and go in for immediate rescue.

“What can we do but take advantage of the opportunity she’s afforded us? It’s not as though they’ve found any women’s bodies missing hands.” Sherlock cringed. That last part was definitely Not Good. He was angry with Samantha for disobeying him but knew it was his fault. He should have calculated Barnes would take the opportunity to invite her as his date tonight given the mob boss’ penchant for parading beautiful women on his arm at such an event.

“Are you out of your mind Sherlock?” John was incredulous.

“Yes. Clearly I am incapable of formulating a better plan or I would mention it. Shall we simply waltz up to them and apologize for allowing our maid to infiltrate their criminal organization because I hurt her feelings?” Sherlock couldn’t hide his contempt for Barnes or his frustration regarding Samantha’s actions any longer. “The only choice we have is to wait and watch. If she has any sense at all she’ll be gone by 8.”


	13. Victory Is An Elusive Whore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from Tori Amos' "Code Red"

Samantha glanced at the clock. 7:45pm was as close to midnight as it was going to get and Cinderella had to be home before her carriage turned into a pumpkin. _Glass slippers would be more comfortable than these stilettos_ she mused.

 _Not yet._ Angela seemed preoccupied as she looked around the ballroom. _And you’re used to them_.

Samantha felt her eyes wandering around the rooftops to the garden searching for Sherlock and John. There was no way they’d be able to get in without an invitation and she hoped they hadn’t seen her. Her earlier attitude of “I’ll show them” had diffused into a nervous realization they might be truly angry should they discover her in the company of a madman without their permission.

“Angela!” Barnes squeezed her arm to redirect her attention back towards him.

She forced a smile. “I’m sorry, Theodore. You were saying?” This man was dangerous. The hair on her neck stood on end when he changed his tone.

“Only that we have guests my dear. Would you do me the honor of accompanying me to a private suite? I would very much like you to meet them.” He smiled innocently—the picture of gentlemanly charm.

“It would be my pleasure.” As Angela allowed herself to be steered away from the crowd Samantha wondered if she wouldn’t rather be in _deep_ trouble with Sherlock and John than spend another moment with Barnes. He was leading her somewhere private. They wouldn’t be able to see her. _If they were looking._


	14. Tell Me This Is One for Lollipop Gestapo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from Tori Amos' "Hotel"

As Barnes ushered her through the door to his suite his grip on her arm tightened considerably.

“Theodore,” She winced. “Are you perhaps distracted?”

“Not at all, Madame.” He smiled graciously and turned on the lights.

Sherlock and John held their hands behind their heads as they knelt on the hearth in front of a raging fire. Two men pointing automatic weapons in the backs of their skulls were positioned behind them. Sherlock’s eyes met hers in a _stupid-stupid-stupid-you-are-SO-stupid_ expression before sliding predatorily in Barnes’ direction. Angela spun to say something to their captor—anything—that would help them get out of there alive. But she couldn’t form the words. There was no way she could seduce their way out of this scenario. Barnes absently pushed her onto the sofa and leveled his gaze with the detective.

“Did you really think,” Barnes leered “That I didn’t know who you were, detective?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and smirked. “You didn’t exactly strike me as the sort to read the papers.”

John looked down and groaned. Samantha dropped her jaw. Barnes exploded in uproarious laughter and rubbed her knee then glided his hand up her thigh and between her legs. The scrape of his nails left long red streaks. Samantha recoiled but forced herself not to cry.

 _This ASSHOLE!_ Angela was getting flustered. Samantha couldn’t look away from Sherlock. She pleaded with her eyes for him to forgive her. To escape if he could. Tears began to form along her lashes. Sherlock nodded to her ever so slightly, directing his eyes downward.

Angela confirmed his message had been received. _Alright sweetie, we’re bailing on this shit show_ she ordered before diving under the couch. Samantha heard the sounds of a struggle mixed with gunfire as she clasped her hands over her head and squeezed her eyes shut. The echo of her own screams roared with deafening clarity in her ears. Until it all went black.


	15. First He Loved My Accent, How His Knees Could Bend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from Tori Amos' "Northern Lad"

A cool hand with long fingers caressed her cheek and ran along the bottom of her lip. The hand was shaking. She tried to open her eyes but everything was fuzzy and funny looking. The ringing in her ears was annoying. And she was so tired. It would be ok to sleep now right? She’d worked hard and she had to go to the lab tomorrow. Then she could go to Baker Street to see the boys… Samantha smiled and strolled into her mind palace, running her fingers along the rich mahogany credenza and smelling the smoke of Sherlock’s forbidden cigarettes. Suddenly she _very_ much wanted a cigarette.

Muffled vibrations of two men arguing inundated her periphery and flashes of light flickered through her eyelashes. Samantha felt nauseous. _Not dead then_. Probably hard to be nauseous when you’re dead. She hoped. She struggled to pull herself up but the searing pain in her leg made her gasp. She could feel the sticky grime of blood soaking her crotch and turning the fabric of her dress a dark purple. _Fuck._ This was bad. Angela was going to be pissed. In stunned silence she poked at the wound and tittered. She was so busted. She let out a little whimper before realizing in horror she didn’t know what happened in Barnes’ parlor. The image of Barnes’ brains exploding in front of her face was a pretty good indication _he_ was at least dead. Dazedly, she wondered whether it would end up in Sherlock’s kitchen sink. _Sherlock. John._ She began to cry.

At once she felt a pair of long arms encircle her and looked up into Sherlock’s face. He looked like a kicked puppy. That was weird. But she was _so happy. So very happy you’re alive and so sorry for fucking up_ she wanted to say but couldn’t form the words. She really should do something about that word-forming thing. Sherlock cradled her head against his chest. _I suppose now is really not the time for lectures._

John appeared behind him carrying a first aid kit. There was no question _he_ was angry with her. “Shove off!” He barked at Sherlock as he produced a set of medical scissors and began to cut away the fabric of her dress.

Samantha gasped. “Oh NO!! You can’t do that. Angela will be _SUPER MAD_.” Why was her voice slurring and rising up and down like that? John shook his head and continued to cut away the purple strips of dried blood and silk. It sounded like John was cutting paper. Sherlock ran his fingers through his beautiful curls as he observed John’s handiwork. “You like to watch, huh?” She giggled. This was funny.

Sherlock blanched.

“Aww, c’mon. Angela said you might. Don’t be shy.” She assured him, patting the carpet next to her hips in an effort to show him where he could sit for the best view. Ha. Sherlock stood motionless, his eyes wide with... _with what_? It wasn’t a big deal. She frowned and looked at John.

“Have I been shot?” She slurred and giggled again. “Actually, more importantly…did you give me something?”

“I’d say the morphine has done its job.” John nodded to Sherlock before adding, “Bring me the water and flannel from the stove. I can’t believe you wouldn’t let me take her to the hospital.”

Sherlock reappeared looking thoroughly discombobulated. Samantha loved that word. And it described him perfectly…pretty much at all times as far as she could see. John proceeded to soak a towel in the water and brushed lightly against the wound on her inner thigh.

“Hmmmm…nope.” She pushed John’s hand away as hard as she could –which turned out to be not very hard—and looked up at Sherlock. “Want you to do it.”

John made some sort of _hurry-the-fuck-up-then-Sherlock_ gesture and indicated the rest of the class was waiting for him. Sherlock hesitantly dipped the cloth in the water and began applying warm gentle strokes. “Ahhhh…” She moaned. “Feels so good…”

John blushed and let out a laugh. “Ok, well I’ll leave you to it then. Sherlock, I assume you know to be gentle with the sutures?”

Sherlock seemed wholeheartedly concentrated on her thigh and did not answer. _Bout damn time_ she thought hazily. “Sherlock,” she sighed again and ran her fingers through his curls. _They were so fucking soft._ And _fluffy_. “Did I _really_ get shot?”

“Yes.” He mumbled in some frustration. “You were only grazed.” Stroke stroke stroke… he was going faster and it made her melt.

“Oh. Ohhhh…damn.”

He stopped his machinations between her legs and looked up in question.

“It’s just that…I thought it would have been kind of cool to have been shot. I’ve never been shot before.” She giggled.

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched in an almost grin. He looked back down and resumed his work.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes Samantha.”

“Did you kill Barnes?”

“I most certainly bloody did.”

“Mmmmmm” she hummed in satisfaction. “I hoped you might.”  


	16. Leave Them Troubled Boys All Behind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from Tori Amos' "Code Red"

The media was going to have a field day. The three of them barely escaped Barnes’ parlor alive and it was a gory mess. As Samantha’s body rolled towards the floor Sherlock ducked and kicked backwards with all his strength—effectively breaking the gunman’s tibia. John knew instinctively this would be Sherlock’s plan of action and followed suit. Within moments they had dispatched the other assailants.

Sherlock had taken particular pleasure in splitting Barnes’ head open with the butt of the gun when he reached for Samantha under the couch to use as leverage. Barnes had a gun, and he’d touched her for the last time.

As he dragged the mob mogul’s body away from the couch he called to her that it was safe. She didn’t respond and he reached out his hand to secure her arm and pull her out. She was breathing but had gone into shock. John helped him pull her out from her sanctuary. Then there was the blood. _So much blood_. Sherlock prayed the bullet hadn’t hit her femoral artery to a god he’d never considered existing. John examined the wound and sighed in relief. When Sherlock called Mycroft to request an immediate extraction and cleanup his brother had been less than enthused.

“Two calls in one week Sherlock? This is rare.” Mycroft sneered.

“Barnes is dead. Send a car. She’s been shot.” He rang off. Sherlock couldn’t muster more of an explanation and didn’t care how Mycroft did it—just that he needed Samantha safely at home. The syndicate would be monitoring hospitals after word got out about Barnes’ death. He would have to make do. John had patched him up plenty of times before and was the best medical surgeon he’d ever met.  

Sherlock carried her into the flat as fast and as gently as he could. Beads of sweat trickled down her forehead and her breath came in sudden bursts. She was hyperventilating. He laid her on the couch and John pushed him away to take her pulse. “No bullet,” he said before opening up the leather pouch Mycroft’s minion provided him in the car. A syringe.

Sherlock hadn’t seen one of _those_ in ages and his breath hitched. _Those days were over_. He was clean now and had much bigger things on his mind than getting high. John slapped her arm a few times to raise a vein and punctured the skin with precision. Sherlock opened her eyelids and watched her pupils constrict into tiny pinpoints. She should be flying about now. John gave him a particularly nasty look and Sherlock realized he was licking his lips.

The things Samantha had said after she came to were a mish mash of her personality and Angela’s. Cute and honest bordering on seductive and obscene. He relished the opportunity to gather more data on this creature, but knew it wouldn’t be fair to Samantha if he asked her too many questions. Sherlock sorely wanted to hear more about how she felt about him. Maybe what she’d like him to do more of to her…the possibilities were endless now. Women had confessed their admiration for him before, but Samantha was different. She brought out his protective instincts and stimulated his curiosity. And she was lying half naked on his sofa. He eyed the bandages he’d wrapped around her thigh and pulled a blanket over her for warmth. She was really out. He reached for her wrist and caressed the back of her hand with his lips, pressing a tender kiss.

“Not a crush then.” John stood with his arms crossed and leaned on one hip against the doorway.

“I suppose not,” Sherlock mumbled without looking his partner in the eye. Instead he focused on the curve of Samantha’s brow, the curl of her lips, and the rise and fall of her chest. She had trusted him too much and words could not express his regret. Suddenly she gripped his hand and rolled over towards the back of the sofa, effectively trapping his arm underneath her breasts.

“Mmmm…” she smiled before drifting back to sleep.

Sherlock froze and looked helplessly towards John, who gave him his most _you-lucky-stupid-bastard_ grin. John turned and Sherlock heard his laughing echoing down the hall towards his bedroom. Sherlock wanted to pull away but also wondered if he could manage to situate himself comfortably enough around her to watch her sleep through the night. Gingerly he kicked off his shoes and made his approach, carefully avoiding her injured leg and spooning around the curve of her body. This was _not_ comfortable. But he didn’t care either did he? Sensing his weight behind her she snuggled her bum into his crotch. He gulped in terror. _Too much data there._ His mind spun like a steam engine and he tried to imagine the most unenticing things he could possibly dredge up from his memory to prevent an erection.

“Sherlock?” She frowned and squeezed his hand.

“Yes Samantha?” He held his breath hoping against hell she wasn’t really awake.

“Love you.” She nuzzled her face into the pillow and her breath became more rhythmic. She was finally asleep.

Sherlock lay there with his eyes open for several minutes before he leaned in to nestle the tip of his nose against the nape of her neck. No one had ever said that to him before. The protocol for this was to say, “I love you too” if such feelings were reciprocated. In his case he was afraid they were. Very much.  

 


	17. Had Me a Kick and a Trick and Your Message

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samantha wakes up to find Sherlock has left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from Tori Amos' "Doughnut Song"

Samantha didn't remember the last time she slept so peacefully. Bits and pieces of last night filtered through her head but she couldn't separate fantasy from reality. She had the most beautiful dream that Sherlock had held her tight against his chest and then cleaned the blood from between her legs. _Blood_. Fuck. Images from Barnes' parlor flashed—Sherlock's eyes, John's face, the guns behind their heads, Barnes laughing, nails on flesh, screaming, gunfire, brains, and finally blackness. Samantha tried to raise herself from the sofa. Trying to do this without pain made her feel very much like a turtle tipped on its back. 

"You're up!" John put his arms behind her and gently lifted her to a sitting position. He fetched some water from the kitchen and set it on the coffee table next to her. "Ready for some more hydration?"

Ugh. The room looked so...so off kilter. 

"Easy now." John stuck a pillow behind her. "You've been out for a while." 

"What?  How long?? Where's Sherlock? What happened??" Suddenly Samantha wondered if she'd only imagined he was alive. A lump in her throat tightened.

"About a day. Sherlock is out." 

"Is he ok? Are you ok? I'm so sorry!" She couldn't seem to control the rapid fire of her questions. 

"We are all fine. Sherlock is just out." He winced a little at this last statement. He didn't know where Sherlock was. "You've had a pretty traumatic experience and you were in shock. We thought it would be best if you slept it off given your...your circumstances."

In other words she hadn't come out of her dissociative episode for over a day. It wasn't surprising. Where was Angela though? Had she been awake?

"Take your time and drink some water. When you feel up to it we will see how well you can walk conscious. Your stitches look good."

Samantha was mortified. Had they taken her to bathroom??? "Ahh...did you guys...take me to the bathroom?" She hated to ask but felt she'd rather know. 

John blushed. "Just me. And don't worry—I've seen my share of patients. You were very well behaved." He smiled but kept his eyes averted.

"So..." Samantha cleared her throat. "So Sherlock didn't see me naked and… Indisposed?" God she just had to know. This was becoming tedious.

John took a deep breath and sighed. He didn't want to answer her.  "Sherlock was gone when I came down from my room yesterday morning. I don't know where he went. But I'm sure he's fine." John was _not_ convincing. 

"Was he mad at me?" Her voice broke at the idea of him not wanting to see her. 

John's expression was pained. He was worried too. "No. I don't think he’s mad at you at all actually. I think he was...scared perhaps."  

 _Scared_. Now _that_ was a novel concept. In the great world of possibilities regarding Sherlock _scared_ seemed the least likely emotion he could have been feeling after she nearly got them all killed. She lowered her eyes to the glass—its water vibrating between her shaking palms.


	18. There’s No One Here Dear, No One At All

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from Tori Amos' "Doughnut Song"

John's frantic voice came muffled through the walls as she lay on the couch. "Just bloody call me, you _git_! I need to know you're ok" then softly " _and that you're not using_." 

 _Using_. The word seemed alien when connected to Sherlock. She waited to hear more but the room fell silent. Sherlock had been missing for over 24 hours now and it was getting dark. When she was able to stay awake for more than a few hours John made a quick trip to her apartment to get her a change of clothes.

He returned with her carryall sweating and huffing. He’d been casing the streets too.

"John. What is Sherlock using?" She couldn't hold it in anymore. Her heart was breaking for Sherlock, but also for John. John looked worse than she did. The bags under his eyes were dark and she suspected he'd been crying. No matter what John said to reassure her she knew it was her fault. 

John ran his hands through his hair and grimaced. Slowly he walked over to the couch and sat down in front of her, his hands clasped with his elbows on his knees. The sure sign Sherlock's drug of choice was one of the worst. 

"It isn't my story to tell," John began. But then he saw the flash of anger from her eyes and conceded. "Heroin. It's probably heroin this time."

 _Heroin_ _. This time_. Samantha swallowed hard at the lump forming in her throat. Surely this wasn’t real. Sherlock was indestructible. He wouldn’t—couldn’t—be an addict.

“He’s not an addict.” John seemed to read her thoughts and looked down at his hands. “I mean, it’s not recreational either. But it’s been a couple years since he’s disappeared like this and…” His voice trailed off as he wiped his thumb against his lower lip.

“Right. Then it’s time I got moving.” Samantha swung up from the couch and winced but managed to stay upright. The wound was only around an inch deep and the stitches were healing quickly.

John shot up out of his chair and grabbed her arms to steady her. “I don’t think you’re going anywhere fast.” Gently he tried to push her back down to a seated position.

Samantha felt her face redden and crumple into tears. She tried to hide her face in her hands as John pulled her to him.

“There now…Shhh…” He whispered in her hair. “Sherlock will be back. It’ll be alright, love…”

“What if he isn’t coming back because I’m here?” She cried foolishly. She felt like she was going to have a tantrum. Sherlock smelled so good when he was holding her. What if he was already dead?

John chuckled. “I expect he’ll come back _because_ you’re here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on my own experiences with addiction it's fairly textbook for an addict to be triggered after seeing a needle and even more so when they are met with emotions they feel unable to process.


	19. Something’s Just Keeping You Numb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from Tori Amos' "Doughnut Song"

Blinding light filtered through the tattered window dressings. If you could call them dressings. Really they were rags in a stinking opium den. Well, if you could call it an opium den. Really was hard to find one of those romantic places wasn’t it? This was a needle junkie squat. Sherlock rolled back towards the wall. It had been 3 days now. She would have left. John would be out of his mind. Mycroft would have been called and it was only a matter of time before they found him.

“Love you,” she had said sweetly before turning her face into the pillow. “Sherlock. Love you.” He laid next to her for hours watching her breathe and taking in her scent while he could before he devised a plan to protect her. To protect her from him.

Sherlock knew he was not a good person. Depending on the evidence presented to a jury he was a narcissistic demented murderer. Samantha was a confused young woman who had developed feelings for the first man who’d accepted her mental illness. Of course she’d think she was in love with him. Other than his reasonable physical attractiveness and genius level intellect there was nothing more he could offer her. Had he wanted to. Which he didn’t. If she stayed with him she would die. Horribly. And while he most certainly did not love Miss Intern or the Lady in Blue—he felt an uncomfortable tightness in his chest every time he thought something might happen to her.

The last few days had been agonizing for someone who was supposed to be on a heroin binge. Normally you’re supposed to have fun he thought wryly. He hadn’t used but once to calm down yesterday. And that was only to be sure he failed a drug test. John would have one waiting for him when he got home. John would also have made sure Samantha would have left by now in case his flat mate returned in a violent drug induced rage. Watching the needle go into her skin was like watching perfection sliding into perfection. He would have been able to resist the urge to make his mind slow down—if only she hadn’t said those two words he would be there with John now. Working on the latest case. Samantha would go back to her job at the lab and everything would go back to normal.

Sherlock turned over on the mattress again. Was she still there? He felt in his pocket for his cell phone. The battery was nearly dead. John could never take a hint. He sighed and pulled up Samantha’s number. She had waited long enough for him to destroy her.


	20. So If You Jump You Best Jump Far

Samantha heard the buzzing of her phone on the kitchen table and groaned. John had gone out to get groceries and walk the streets looking for Sherlock. It _definitely_ wasn’t Barnes. _What if it was Sherlock?_ With renewed interest and speed she hobbled over to the table.

    _How are you feeling? -SH_

The text was concise and to the point. _Sherlock_.

Tears began to stream down her cheeks as she typed the response.

_Where are you? Come back to the flat. Please. I’m sorry._

    _You still want to see me? Even though you know what I’ve been doing? -SH_

She didn’t care if he came home and asked her to help him dismember a corpse.

_I’ll do anything you want if I can just see you._

Samantha stared at her phone, willing a reply. Sherlock had never texted her before. Her legs began to go numb and she remembered John had told her not to stand for very long, even if walking was mostly acceptable. Hopping back over to the couch she waited. And prayed. Finally a message appeared.

    _61 Choumert Road, Peckham, SE15 4AR –SH_

Samantha knew instinctively she should call John. Sherlock would almost certainly be high, and not himself. _No. He wants to see you now. You can call John after._ _You can handle this on your own._ Samantha winced as she realized how selfish she was being. This wasn’t for Sherlock, this was for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from Tori Amos' "Leather":
> 
> Look I'm standing naked before you  
> Don't you want more than my sex  
> I can scream as loud as your last one  
> But I can't claim innocence
> 
> Oh God  
> Could it be the weather  
> Oh God   
> Why am I here  
> If love Isn't forever  
> And it's not the weather  
> Hand me my leather
> 
> I could just pretend that you love me  
> The night would lose all sense of fear  
> But why do I need you to love me  
> When you can't Hold what I hold dear
> 
> I almost ran over an angel  
> He had a nice big fat cigar  
> "In a sense" he said "You're alone here  
> So if you jump you best jump far"
> 
> Oh God  
> Could it be the weather  
> Oh God   
> Why am I here  
> If love Isn't forever  
> And it's not the weather  
> Hand me my leather


	21. He Says He Reckons I'm A Watercolour Stain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock puts his plan to frighten Samantha away into action and things get...complicated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where things get tricky with the dubious consent issues. A happy ending is forthcoming, but do read with care, especially if you have any form of dissociation or experience with rape.

Sherlock knew Samantha would come alone. He counted on it. She was too infatuated with him not to feel special for being the first one he reached out to. Considering her text Samantha must have been at the flat after all, which meant he had approximately 15 minutes left to prepare. Hurting her wasn’t what he wanted. But then it _was_ in a way. She had turned his life upside down without a care for his feelings. What’s more, she wanted to _take_ from him. If he could scare her enough she would walk away and never look back. If he could do it right—he thought, as he injected the syringe into his arm—she’d be running.

Sherlock titled his head back and imagined the cocaine binding to his dopamine transporters—blooming into tiny red synaptic fireworks and holding his bliss hostage. His eyes dilated expansively and he felt his blood pressure rise with the high. The neurons in his orbitofrontal cortex were becoming more sluggish. He wagered had he not taken heroin only a couple days prior Samantha might have been in danger of receiving very real wrath. He didn’t want to become a raving lunatic. _Just look like one._ As it was, he seemed to have excellent control of his faculties. _Heightened control even._

Sure enough he heard the frantic knocking at the door within the allotted time. She would get to see him in his finest hour. He swung open the door and she rushed in with her arms outstretched in an embrace. Relief washed over her face, realizing too late he was stark naked and sporting a raging erection. He pushed the door closed with his foot and maneuvered her roughly against it.

“SHERLOCK!” Her mouth made a little “O” of shock as she felt him thrust his hips into hers. “Oh! My GOD, SHERLOCK!” She was so confused. As he’d suspected, the poor thing wasn’t an adult yet after all.

“You said you wanted to see me.” He grinned malevolently. “Well, now you can see _all_ of me.”

Samantha tried to push him away to see his face but he leaned into her neck. _“You said you’d do anything,”_ he growled suggestively.

Every muscle in her body must have tensed. He could practically hear them contact in distaste over the ringing in his ears. Her leather gloves cut into his biceps and then, much to his chagrin, abruptly relaxed.

“Alright.” She said weakly and buried her face in his naked chest. “Please. Just come home. I’ll do whatever you want at home.”

Sherlock was aghast. This wasn’t working at all. _How could she still want him?_ Didn’t she have _ANY_ self-respect? Now more than ever he wanted to punish her—to save her from loving him. Her eyes filled with tears as he shook her repeatedly trying to convey something…

Suddenly he was struck by an idea. “I want Angela,” he stated flatly, glaring with disgust.

“What…?”

“Angela. Give her to me so I can fuck you.” This would be it then. Cruelty would make a better weapon than fear anyway.

Samantha seemed to have lost the ability to understand human speech again. _So bloody annoying_. If he _was_ going to fuck her as Angela she needed to get on with it.

Samantha shook her head dumbly, “I…I don't know where…” She was shaking violently. One more push. _Just like before_. Sherlock grabbed both her wrists and bit ferociously onto Samantha’s gloved fingertips. With an agonizing howl she collapsed into a torrent of sobs. She moaned and rocked herself against the door, cradling her injured hands. She was pleading for him to stop… _to love her_.

Suddenly she grew still. Tentatively Sherlock extended one of his hands towards the top of her head. _What…had he done?_

What happened next warranted the immediate construction of a new painting to hang in the chamber he’d reserved for her in his mind palace.

There was no mistake once she looked back up into his eyes. Samantha was gone. And Angela had made her entrance. And she was positively _seething_ with rage. Leaning against the door and pulling herself to her feet, she dug her teeth into the lip of each glove and slid them off as she glared at him. Sherlock felt the hairs on the back of his neck pucker with perspiration. She stepped towards him and toed off one shoe and then the other. Slowly. Until she straightened herself and looked up into his eyes. She was like a phoenix. _A goddess. A—_

Sherlock didn’t feel the blow as much as saw the room turn sideways and felt the paneling of the wood under his back. Angela climbed on top of him, straddling his groin.

“ _YOU. DARE!”_ She hissed, before she released another volley of blows upon his jaw. _This_ was an unexpected result of his provocation of Samantha. He faintly recorded it felt rather _good_ in his data stream. His erection stiffened. _Hellcat_ didn’t _begin_ to describe her ferocity. “ _YOU. FILTHY. MOTHER. FUCKER._ ” Each word was enunciated by the strikes she leveled against his mouth. Clearly this was going to continue if he didn’t do something quick. She was still no match for his strength.

Grabbing her wrists he wrenched her over and then under him. Her eyes lit with fury and she _actually_ bit at his cheek. He wondered if he shouldn’t allow her to reach him just to see what it would feel like for her to devour him. The obscenities pouring out of her mouth were truly creative. But her body told a different story. Her chest heaved as she spat at him before turning her face away in disgust.

Sherlock leered as the dribble of saliva trickled past the corner of his mouth. “ _Is this where I ravage you?”_ He could barely believe he was _really_ asking that question. Angela kicked her legs under his to no avail. He had her pinned and he squeezed her wrists, nudging himself between her legs in an effort to both remind her of her helplessness and gain an answer.

“You’re a fool, Mr. Holmes.” She stated calmly. As though she hadn’t been prepared to disembowel him only moments before. She was right. He _was_ a fool. “I will _not_ let you hurt her anymore after today.” Angela’s voice rang with conviction. The conviction she’d probably employed for years to defend Samantha from exactly this sort of assault. Her spit felt hot on his cheek. Never in his life had he wanted a woman more than this.

“You said you’d do anything.” The voice he heard was no longer his own. His senses were beginning to overwhelm him as he realized he could smell her arousal again. As the white heat of the cocaine surged through his system, this was a divinely heady combination.

“Do as you like.” She looked away expecting the worst. Expecting him to rape her in a torrent of uncontrollable lust. Her words an admission of defeat.

“Do you want me, Angela?” He huffed desperately. Sherlock knew the answer but he had to be sure. Had to be sure her body wasn't lying and he hadn’t fallen victim to the cocaine raging through his blood after all. His mind was racing, anticipating so many outcomes—but he needed her answer first. He may have been a murderer but he wasn’t a rapist.

Angela cocked one eyebrow as if in surprise then narrowed her gaze. “If I allow this…will you leave us alone forever?” Angela glared at him accusingly before adding, “It’s what you wanted wasn’t it? To scare Samantha and me away from your fucked up little world? So you can go back to…what exactly?” Her eyes met his in challenge then softened slightly as she continued, “I know I’m only a whore to you. What does it matter?”

Her words stung. She wasn’t a whore. She and Samantha were goddesses of desire. But he needed her so badly. His body ached. How much lucidity did he have left? “I will,” he stammered roughly, “You have my word.”

Angela solemnly nodded her consent. Before she could question him further he hiked her skirt up around her waist and yanked on her knickers until the seams tore open, exposing the fragrantly slick flesh of her quim beneath. He groaned at the sight as he looked up to see Angela had unbuttoned her blouse and unhooked her bra, slinging them off into a corner. Time seemed to slow then speed up again with a raging force as Angela spread her legs wide and Sherlock slid his hardened cock into her body. Angela arched her back with a whimper and he realized with certainty she wanted this too. Wanted him. As he drove himself into her he felt her sheath tighten around him with every thrust, growing wetter and hotter. Inviting him to go deeper, to fill her completely. Angela dug her nails into his neck and shoulder savagely seeking leverage, staring into his eyes with something akin to determination mixed with desire. But when he leaned in to taste her lips she turned her face and sneered cruelly. While disappointed, he was quickly becoming overwhelmed with other sensations, and so he weighed his head against her breasts, taking one hardened nipple into his mouth. In light of her refusal to kiss him he suckled gently, kneading its pebbled tip against his tongue, knowing what she really wanted was for him to take her roughly. He kept his eyes directed into hers as he did this and she clenched her jaw in frustration, the motion of which reflected in the muscles pulsing around his cock. Sherlock laughed, inwardly pleased he had his revenge, along with some more data. Every pant, every moan, was cataloged with painstaking detail, as he knew this would be the only time. Samantha would leave after this. She _had_ to. Before his thoughts could filter more in that direction Angela’s quim clenched ruthlessly. “Fuck,” she muttered as she looked down towards where their bodies were joined. Her body pulled tight as a violin’s bow and she cried out. The sight was so wondrous, so _bloody gorgeous_ , that Sherlock felt his own body tense up in appreciation.

He nearly wept as his world began to rip apart. “ _Ahhh!_ … _Samantha!_ … _please._..” he cried, finally spilling into her in long, throbbing bursts. As his vision returned from white noise he was left panting and shuddering against her shoulder. After a few moments to catch her breath, Angela spoke.

“I have to be sure Mr. Holmes,” she said softly. There was something about her voice which struck him as odd, almost tinged with regret.

Dazedly he raised his head to search her eyes. _What did she mean?_

_“…Sherlock?”_

No. _No, God please no_. But it was too late. Samantha registered his body inside hers in bewilderment at first then recognition of what he had done. With his heightened senses he thought he could actually hear the moment her heart shattered as her face crumpled first into tears and then hysterical sobs.

He pulled himself out of her swiftly, closing her legs in a numb sort of gesture towards modesty. The wound had opened between her thighs and a bright streak of blood stained her legs. Samantha gasped in horror as she saw his seed spilling out of her, mixing with the blood on the floor. He was indeed a monster. He had always known.

As he laid his coat over her naked form she clawed at his arms. Her sobs turned into wails and then screams. He had broken this woman. Mission accomplished. This wasn't how it was supposed to happen. Why had he lost his composure? Why couldn’t he stop? He had only wanted to frighten her a little. This wasn’t real. This wasn’t him. He loved her. _Ohhh god._

 _He loved her_.

Suddenly her cries turned into gasps. She was having a panic attack. Her eyes became vacant as she struggled to maintain her consciousness. He rushed to her side and she flailed at him blindly.

“It’s ok, Samantha,” he offered dimly, his voice breaking. “You’re ok, I’m sorry. You’re ok. You’ll be safe soon. I’ll call John right now. I’m so sorry, Samantha. Believe me, please…” Sherlock realized his cheeks were wet as he reached for his phone. He never cried. This was surreal. This wasn’t happening. It had to be a dream. He must still be in the junkies’ squat…

“Sherlock!!” John’s voice sounded desperate then panicked.

Sherlock’s voice shook uncontrollably. “John, please. Please come. I’ve done something terrible. I’ve hurt her.”

There was silence for a moment. Then John answered with calm resignation, “Tell me where you are, Sherlock.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from Tori Amos' "Father Lucifer": 
> 
> He says he reckons I'm a watercolour stain  
> He says I run and then I run from him  
> And then I run  
> He didn't see me watching  
> From the aeroplane  
> He wiped a tear  
> And then he threw away our appleseed


	22. Guess I’m Way Beyond the Pale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from Tori Amos' "Doughnut Song"

John burst through the doors and froze. Samantha was no longer screaming, but sat curled into a little ball in the corner behind the bed. He took one look at her mumbling and incoherent form and then at Sherlock—his eyes filled with anguish and disbelief.

Sherlock looked away in shame. “Please help—” He began, but suddenly John’s body was upon him, pinning him to the floor. John whimpered as he punched Sherlock again and again. The metallic taste of blood began to fill his mouth. Sherlock didn’t care. He wanted to die. If he was going to die for this sin he wanted John to be the one to send him to hell.

When the blows stopped Sherlock looked up. _Why did he stop?_ John was clenching the collar of his shirt. His face held an expression of confusion and complete despair. Tears stung his eyes.

Sherlock hadn’t planned to hurt John at all. John, who had the ability to forgive him for anything...anything but this.

John stood up and wiped his hands on his jumper before he turned away from him. Sherlock watched in helpless silence as John cradled her against his chest before scooping Samantha up into his arms. For one brief moment John turned towards his partner with a look that said, “Get home and get the fuck sorted out Sherlock. Or so help me this time…”

Sherlock nodded as he gathered his things in his arms and dutifully followed John out to the cab waiting in the street.


	23. And You Know This Is Madness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John attends to Samantha, and Sherlock is delivered back to 221B only to find he is not alone.

The cab driver didn’t seem bothered by the group who exited the room on Choumert Road. He’d probably seen plenty of addicts and raving lunatics escorted off the premises. Some wrapped in blankets. Others in body bags. A part of Sherlock wished he was in one of the bags.

John had extensive experience with PTSD and ordered the cab driver to take them to Samantha’s apartment. This surprised Sherlock—he would have taken her to a rape clinic—but John seemed to know better and he wasn’t in a position to argue. Samantha had become very still once they entered the car. Sherlock went to take her pulse but John gave him a look that made him withdraw in shame. Not surprisingly he wasn’t allowed to escort them into her apartment. John had made his orders abundantly clear. _Go home and get the fuck sorted, Sherlock._

The ride to 221B Baker Street was short. He paid the cabbie with money John gave him—noticeably just enough to get him back to the flat and not abscond to another squat. The cocaine had left his system. The bliss was over and what he held in his mind was a nightmare. Sherlock stood for several minutes in front of the flat considering his predicament. If he went in he would be trapped. But he’d be able to charge his phone and wait for word from John regarding Samantha’s condition. In trepidation he plodded up the stairs and opened his door.

 _Bloody fantastic_. Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson had been expecting him. Before he could open his mouth to explain Mrs. Hudson strode towards him with her right hand raised as if to strike him. Her eyes were red and her hands were shaking. Just as she was about to make contact with his cheek she stopped, patted him gently, and lowered her head in disappointment. Her stifled sobs echoed as she went back downstairs. Perhaps she thought he’d been hit enough. He tongued his teeth, checking to see if any were dislodged.

Sherlock had been here before. Put people he cared about through hell worrying about him. And yet it always shocked him how terrible it made him feel. Next would be Mycroft. Rallying himself for a lecture he paced to his chair and sat down with as much dignity as he could manage. Mycroft was silent. Waiting. What was he supposed to say? Sorry big brother I’ve done it again? _We all knew you were expecting this. For me to fail at being human._

"Just bloody get on with it then!" he railed at Mycroft. He hoped his brother would hit him too. No amount of physical pain would be enough to make amends but it _would_ keep his mind preoccupied. The cocaine may have left most of his system, but he still felt a disturbing amount of noise in his brain. The clarity of this situation was excruciating.

Mycroft nodded and shifted towards the door. "I'm leaving one of my men outside. _Don't_. Go anywhere. Some of Barnes' men may still be out there looking for you."

Sherlock opened his mouth to make a snide remark but then repressed the urge. "The girl...Samantha..." he stuttered vacantly instead. He _actually_ stuttered in front of his brother. _God when would this day END?_

"Will be looked out for. _For you_. Always." He grinned at Sherlock’s wide eyed expression before adding nattily, "Really, Sherlock a simple ‘I'm just not that into you' would have sufficed." He tilted his head to wait for the predictably snarky retort from Sherlock.

Mycroft probably recognized Sherlock's weakness for Samantha the moment he made the first call to have her picked up from Barnes' villa. Anyone else would have been delivered to a hospital and watched by armed guards.  

Sensing his brother might actually be listening to his lecture for a change Mycroft continued, "Despite how hard you try, you _are_ human little brother. Under normal circumstances I'd be pleased for you."

"And now?" Sherlock couldn't stop himself.

"Now I pity you. When will you learn you don’t have to be alone?" He stopped and shook his head hopelessly before exiting the room. 

"Indeed." Sherlock mumbled feebly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from Tori Amos' "Liquid Diamonds":
> 
> And if your friends don't come back to you  
> And you know this is madness  
> A lilac mess in your prom dress and you say  
> I guess I'm an underwater thing


	24. What You Stole I Would Have Given Freely

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from Tori Amos' "Code Red"

Samantha had grown somewhat accustomed to waking up half naked in strange places so it astonished her to see the familiar ceiling above her very own bed. She rolled over and felt the hitch in her thigh where her sutures had come apart. She hissed a groan and John raced to her side. 

"How long this time?" She asked dryly. 

"Only a few hours." John wouldn't meet her eyes." You were..." He began and abruptly cut short his next words. 

"With Sherlock." She stated this in the most matter-of-factly tone she could muster. As though making it sound ok would ease John's pain. Not an effective strategy apparently. She signed with resignation. "He didn't know what he was doing John."

John's eyes crinkled in despair. She bit her lip and corrected herself, _"WE...didn't know what WE were doing..."_

His eyes grew large in disbelief. He hadn’t expected her to suggest such a thing was possible. "It hurt to be with him...like that…but...I think I hurt him more than he hurt me." Her faced reddened.

John stood up from the chair and began to pace about the room. He rubbed his thumb against his lower lip and pulled through his hair with his other hand.  

"I'm sorry." Her voice cracked as she tried to conceal its anguish. Sherlock had tried to hurt her. To frighten her into abandoning him. She understood this with absolute certainty when she read his text and yet she told him she would give him whatever he wanted and went to see him anyway...He asked for Angela and therefore ultimately her. _Angela was her_. _She had consented_.

And after living with her dissociation for so many years she’d learned to understand where she’d been in a way through her body. Sherlock hadn’t made love to her exactly, but he did not rape her. Even in his drug induced stupor he hadn’t really hurt her. Physically at least. Waking with him on top of her had been shocking—but not because it was him. Somewhere deep inside she knew she’d broken this man when she looked into his eyes. She didn’t want him to look at her like that. To see what she’d made him do to her. How she’d taken advantage of him in his moment of weakness was too painful to process. She had fought her return to consciousness in an effort to escape the reality but ultimately failed.

"Is he alright?" She asked meekly and prepared for the worst. 

John gaped. " _Is HE alright??_ _That_ … arsehole attacks you and you're worried if _he's_ alright??" His voice rose in indignation, betrayal, and rage.  _And pity_.

"I need to know, John. I'm so sorry to have put you in this position..." She laid a reassuring hand on his arm. "This isn't the first time there's been a ...misunderstanding for me with a man." God she hated this. Hated herself. If she wasn’t so deranged it wouldn't be so confusing... _Please don’t make me say it John_.

He jerked his hand away and rubbed his face. "A _MISUNDERSTANDING_?? Samantha whatever your state of mind a drug addled man just coerced you into having sex..." His breathing came in rattled gasps. "Sherlock...he... Why does he have to fuck over everything good in his life?!" His eyes were beseeching. He desperately wanted to understand. 

However Samantha was past the point of feeling any more sympathy. She needed to know if Sherlock was safe. "John. JOHN!! Goddammit John _I wanted him_! Don’t you _DARE_ use my mental illness as an excuse!” Her chest was heaving and she felt like she might explode if she didn’t get an answer.

"He's at the flat. I think." John uttered visibly stunned. Then annoyed. " _Mycroft_ is probably with him."

"Who?" Samantha felt certain she would remember that name had she heard before.

"His big brother. Sherlock won't be able to run for now ... _hopefully_."

" _Oh._ " The idea Sherlock had a big brother—that he was someone's little brother—warmed her. Sherlock might be ok. If only she’d stay away from him he’d have a chance.


	25. I Think You Never Learned to Take

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from Tori Amos' "Doughnut Song"

Samantha was awake. And coherent. Sherlock felt relief followed by an overwhelming urge to go back to Syria and disappear. Absently, he wondered if Mycroft needed him for anything in particular.

“SHERLOCK! Are you listening?” John’s voice blared in his ears and he pulled the phone away.

“Yes. Please go on.”

“I said she’s ok but she doesn’t want to see you,” John said with a ring of sadness and added, “ever again.”

That was by far the least shocking thing Sherlock had heard that day. Naturally she wouldn’t want to see her attacker ever again.

“Right, then. I should go to the police.” He swallowed. He’d always envisioned dying in a haze of bullets—not stabbed to death by inmates he’d helped incarcerate. Still he believed in justice and—

“That won’t be necessary, Sherlock.” John’s voice was devoid of emotion. It unnerved him.

“John I assure you I won’t—I would never—I’m—”

“No longer whacked out of your mind trying to destroy the only person who could possibly distract you from The Work?” John finished. “Ta. Well, you’ve destroyed enough for one day right? Better call it a night.”

Sherlock stared at his phone in confusion. Why was John so calm now? Perhaps John would kill him later.


	26. Don’t Make Me Scratch On Your Door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samantha decides on a plan to protect Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from Tori Amos' "Putting the Damage On"

Five days and 23 hours had passed since she’d seen him. And a half. “And he’s supposed to be the addict,” Samantha grumbled to herself. Though she’d only been with the boys at 221B Baker Street for a little under a month she’d grown accustomed to believing it would always be a home for her. That Sherlock would be her home. She couldn’t count the number of times she’d had to stop herself from picking up the phone to contact him. Sherlock might be brilliant but he had no idea what sort of woman he was dealing with when he met her. _After all he got me to leave didn’t he?_ she thought bitterly.

Many times she felt herself searching for Angela in her head—seeking that familiar warmth she hadn’t realized existed when their consciousness’s touched. But Angela had been silent ever since that day. No snide remarks. No begging for a night out. It was lonely. Samantha suspected the absence of her other half had to do with Angela’s feelings for Sherlock. Angela had never behaved this way. Whether she slept with a man or tried to kill him for hurting her, Angela had never been silent for so long without some witty rejoinder once things had settled. Samantha had even stopped wearing her gloves in the hope Angela would return to her. She desperately wanted to know the details of what happened between her and Sherlock. She knew it was the epitome of sick to want to see him in her mind’s eye—high as a kite and… _naked inside her_. _What had he looked like?_

Samantha blushed and released the breath she’d been holding. She was so…frustrated. That would be the only time. The only time. And her fear had taken that moment—however fucked up it was—away from her.

She shoved more clothes into her luggage and grumbled. This was the only way for him to be safe from her going back. She had to leave again. Again. Her eyes clouded over with tears. She could go to the ends of the earth and never be safe from herself. But maybe if she went far enough he would be.


	27. Your Heart Only Beats Ones and O's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has shut down, and John is getting sick of it.

As much as possible, Sherlock had spent the last 5 days and 23 and a half hours in his mind palace. He touched Samantha’s lavender scented gloves tenderly and winced with the knowledge he’d never get to do so with her outside these rooms again. Gingerly he traced his fingers over the paintings of every one of Samantha’s expressions he could remember. He’d relocated her essence to a larger chamber. He’d added a fountain with floating bells, which echoed her melodic laugh. She probably never realized it, but Samantha and Angela had the same laugh…

“JESUS CHRIST WHERE THE FUCK IS IT” John’s exclamation ripped Sherlock from his reverie. He was already in a fowl mood whenever he left her rooms—what could John want now?

“What. John.” Sherlock growled viscously as he opened his eyes and groaned. The light hurt his eyes.

“THE BLOODY SNAKE!” John had never sounded quite so overwhelmed with panic. A gun had been pointed against the man’s skull from a dozen different directions the entire time they’d been partners and a snake was what finally left him unglued. Well. It _was_ the most poisonous snake on the planet. At least on land. He had intended to dispose of it once his experiment had been completed but couldn’t bring himself to part with the creature after watching Samantha gaze at it so adoringly. Only a special sort of woman could inspire him so. “Sherlock…” John warned him softly, hands raised above his waist. “Where’s the bloody fucking snake?”

“Oh. I moved it to my room. It was getting too much sun in the kitchen window.” Sherlock answered in the most blasé tone he could manage.

John visibly relaxed and glared at him. “A mention might be nice. Hmm?”

Sherlock smiled. Messing with John was so easy. He really had been taking care of the mamba though. It was the only tangible thing he had of hers. Sighing heavily he folded his fingers over his eyes, intending to return to his palace. 

“For God sake Sherlock,” John’s exasperated demand interrupted him. Again. “You haven’t left that chair in a week.”

“Almost 6 days does not constitute a week John.” Sherlock mumbled under his breath.

“You haven’t eaten either have you?” John gave him his puppy eyed concerned face.

“No more than usual.”

“Less than usual.” John corrected him.

 _So now he was going to be specific._ Sherlock thought irritably.

“Sherlock…?”

“WHAT, JOHN?” All he wanted was some peace. After all the commotion with everyone searching his flat for drugs he was exhausted. His mind was his only respite.

“You haven’t got any cases.”

“Yes. John. That has occurred to me.” Why hadn’t he just gotten pets? That could walk themselves. Outside pets. He thought fondly of the snake in his room demanding nothing more than a few dead mice to keep it content. Well. He did spoil it with live ones.

“And you’ve no experiments.” John gestured to the spotless kitchen.

“Your point, John?” This was becoming more tiresome. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t noticed his own despondence. He just hadn’t bothered to try covering it up this time. It would pass in time. Surely someone would need him to do something interesting soon.

“You’ve turned down all the cases. You have no experiments. And you haven’t worn anything but pajamas in over a week.” John tallied his sentences up on his fingers.

“Only 6 days.”

“Fine. For 6 days you’ve done nothing but mope around the flat. I understand you miss Saman—” John halted. He hadn’t meant to say it. _Her name_. He winced apologetically and resumed with a cough. “I understand you are having a hard time but you have to…to…”

“To what John?” Sherlock finally lost patience. If he wasn’t a bastard who’d attacked an innocent woman or a drug addicted psychopath he’d been denigrated to a sponge of some sort.

“Perhaps I should call up Mycroft then. Or better yet, perhaps you should. My big brother always finds some sordid tidbit of mystery under his table to share.”

Sherlock’s phone began to ring and he looked at the number. “Speak of the devil!” He proclaimed triumphantly in a forced sneer and tossed the phone back onto the table. Before he could say anything else John rushed over to it and picked up the call.

“No. Ta, he’s here.” John must have been desperate to get rid of Sherlock to speak with his brother. Abruptly he turned to Sherlock with an expression that diminished from annoyance to abject horror. “Barnes’ men. They’ve got her.” He said simply, his hands falling to his sides. The phone dropped to the floor and skittered under the table.

Sherlock felt the wretched stench of fear wash over him and he ran to the door to grab his coat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from Tori Amos' Digital Ghost: 
> 
> It started as a joke  
> Just one of my larks to see  
> If somehow I could reach you so
> 
> I swam into your shores  
> Through an open window  
> Only to find you all alone
> 
> Curled up with machines  
> Now it seems you're slipping  
> Out of the land of the living
> 
> Just take a closer look  
> Take a closer look  
> At what it is that's really haunting you
> 
> I have to trust you'll know  
> This digital ghost  
> But I fear there's only so much time  
> 'cause the you I knew is fading away
> 
> Hands lay them on my keys  
> Let me play you again  
> I am not immune to your net
> 
> Find me there in it  
> I won't go even if in  
> Your heart only beats ones and O's
> 
> Switch you on my friend  
> Pull you from that rip current  
> But only you can fight against this
> 
> Take a closer look  
> Just take a closer look  
> At what it is that's really haunting you
> 
> I have to trust you'll know  
> This digital ghost  
> But I fear there's only so much time  
> 'cause the you I knew is fading away


	28. Just Another Light Missing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from Tori Amos' "Taxi Ride"

There then. It was all settled. Samantha looked out the cab’s window feeling an overwhelming sense of loss sting her eyes with tears. This was for the best. She couldn’t trust herself in London not to try to see Sherlock. John hadn’t updated his blog in days and there were no tales of the famous detective Sherlock Holmes and his companion Dr. Watson in the papers. Samantha groaned. She was obsessed. So much so that she almost didn’t notice the cab wasn’t going in the right direction.

“Hey,” She sniffed while wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. “You missed the turn.”

The driver didn’t answer her but turned the cab into a secluded alleyway. She tapped on the dividing glass in alarm. “HEY!!” She cried again more fervently. She pulled on the handle but found the doors were locked.

Gradually the car came to a stop and her door opened. Samantha kept her gaze forward in an effort to avoid recognizing her kidnapper and being killed for it.

“Get out.” A voice barked as she felt the chill of a pistol caress her jaw. She froze in hesitation before a phantom arm wrenched her into darkness.


	29. Down To Your Last Cigarette

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from Tori Amos' "Taxi Ride"

Neither of them spoke as the two men rode towards the airport. Mycroft provided the location where the kidnappers would have taken her but it didn’t make sense. Sherlock’s mind seemed to race ahead of them, calculating every possible scenario in which things could go right and wrong. Barnes’ men had all been dispatched. None should have remained a threat to Samantha. Mycroft said he’d look out for her. Then how could this have happened? This was his fault. She never would have been brought into his world if only he wasn’t such a sadist. How could a pair of leather gloves have brought him so low? He leaned forward in his seat as the terminals drew closer. The violence he had in mind for anyone who laid a hand on Samantha was unspeakable. If there were more than one perpetrator he’d have years of materials for his experiments. Perhaps he’d keep a couple alive simply to study the effects his pet would have on living tissue.

“We’re here, Mr. Holmes.” The driver pulled to the side of an abandoned building near the tarmac and he and John leapt to their feet running. She was here. She had to be. For her to be anywhere else was unthinkable. Sherlock was so focused on locating her he didn’t see he and John weren’t alone.

“Sherlock!” John called out to him but it was too late. He felt the blow to his skull before his world went white. It was much better with Samantha.


	30. Lily Is Dancing On the Table

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from Tori Amos' "Taxi Ride"

Samantha really wished she’d used the bathroom at the flat before she’d gotten in the cab. She didn’t need to go presently but it had occurred to her she might need to before she died. She squirmed against her restraints in the chair in another futile attempt at freeing herself. The blindfold wasn’t helping matters. She could hear voices. Two, no three men surrounded her. Then a scuffle of feet. Another chair sliding across the floor and a grunt from another man as he was dragged onto it only a few feet away.

The man’s breathing was laborious and uneven. He too was struggling in vain against his captors. What did these men want? Mycroft had assured her she was safe and could leave the country only hours before.

“Samantha?” Sherlock’s voice. Sherlock was here. He’d save her. It would be ok. But something was wrong. He lacked the easy confidence in his voice. Oh God. She couldn’t see him. Her mind raced in a thousand different directions. They were trapped. They would be killed because she wouldn’t answer a stupid question about her gloves and fell in love with the man who asked her.


	31. Foam Can Be Dangerous With Tape Across My Mouth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock attempts to deduce their captors' identities but ends up being on the receiving end of Samantha's scrutiny.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from Tori Amos' "Pandora's Aquarium"

It wasn’t fair at all how this was adding up. Where was John? Sherlock regained consciousness with his arms and legs strapped to a chair in front of Samantha. It _really_ wasn’t fair. Her restraints weren’t nearly as severe. Already he felt his limbs going numb from the pressure of the ropes. But there she was. Alive. And blindfolded. Why wasn’t he blindfolded? Something was wrong. Did these beasts plan to torture her in front of him? To wound him? If so it would most certainly work. He’d give them anything they desired if only they would let her go free. But what was it they wanted?  

"Samantha?" He could do nothing and was certain his was the last voice she'd want to hear in her current state, but he had to know if she was responsive.

"Sherlock? What's happening?" Her face contorted in relief and then fear. "Are you alright?"

He didn't dare hope she was glad to see him. He clenched his wrists in frustration.  

"All things considering." His annoyance was palpable. "Are you alright Samantha? Have you been hurt?" He tried not to alarm her with the darkness in his tone.  It was not intended for her.

Her breath leveled out and she smiled faintly. "I'm alright."  Why was she so calm? He couldn’t think of a worse situation for her—kidnapped and held hostage in a room with a man who’d attacked her only a week before. 6 days. Whatever. 

"Samantha...I know I'm the last person you want to see right now. But I need you to tell me exactly how you got here."

Her expression changed and she hesitated before answering. She inhaled and exhaled deeply. "I was in a cab on my way to the airport when I realized we were going the wrong way."  

The airport? Where was she going? _Never mind._ He had no right to ask. 

"...When a man grabbed me out of the backseat of the car at gunpoint."

"Did he hurt you?" Sherlock interrupted and cursed himself. She seemed calm enough now but if she was assaulted and had to relive the experience she might not before long.  

She frowned and concentrated very hard on this question. How he wished he could see her eyes, then he would know without her having to answer. "No. I remember the whole thing. Someone put a bag over my head and I was brought here. They blindfolded me and strapped me to this chair." She squirmed a little subconsciously against the straps holding her arms behind her.

"Do you remember anything about these men? Even a part of their face? Height? Build?" He didn't want to interrogate her but he wasn't sure how much time they had before their captors returned. 

"No…I'm sorry, Sherlock." She shook her head as her face broke into anguish.

"You have nothing to apologize for." He took a deep breath and resigned himself to deducing the identities of the kidnappers on his own when they arrived. Which led him to wonder why they hadn’t come back yet.  

"No, Sherlock. I mean, I'm sorry. If you hadn't met me..." She swallowed a sob and tears dampened her blindfold. She sniffed and corrected herself. "I know this situation probably isn't new for you" She let out a nervous apologetic laugh. "But this time it's my fault. And... _the time before_...as well. I'm so sorry I did that to you." She strained to control herself and looked down to her lap. She wasn't making any sense...If only he could see her eyes...

"Don't...Don't be silly, Samantha," he coughed uncomfortably. Had they drugged her?  

"But I'm not being silly!!” She began to shake uncontrollably as she looked up his direction. “I don't know how much time we have before they come back. You need to know how sorry I am..." She whimpered as her tears ran down her neck.

She was getting overwhelmed. He was the only one who could talk her down now. _Where the hell was John?_

"Samantha," he said in the gentlest tone he could muster with his rising panic. "It's alright. It's really alright. Please. Stop crying."

But her tears were escalating into sobs of grief. It was heartbreaking to see her like this. And he could do nothing to comfort her because he was strapped to this bloody chair. He had to keep her talking. 

"Why were you going to the airport Samantha?"

"Because I had to!!" She shouted, "I couldn't stand it anymore. I have to get out of London. My stupid fucking mind palace wasn't enough." She spat that last sentence out rather bitterly he thought in shock. She'd made a mind palace? You didn't make a mind palace for someone who brutally attacked you....

"What does your mind palace look like Samantha?" He had to keep her talking if only to keep her breathing.

She sniffed and steadied herself. " _It's embarrassing_." She muttered under her breath.

"Please. I really want to know." He really _did_ want to know. He marveled at the idea. 

She hunched over in defeat and began softly, "I've only got one room now. That I know of."

"Go on." He prodded, lost in her body language. She was blushing furiously. Now he _had_ to know.

"Basically," she mumbled, _"it's your flat."_ As though _that_ was enough to sustain his curiosity. 

"Describe it to me."

Another deep breath. Guiltily he hoped she might believe they might really die and decide not to hold back. He leaned forward with intense interest as every sense he possessed was tuned into _her_.

"I walk up the stairs and the door opens into the study." She paused and shook herself a little bit in concentration. "Everything is covered in warm sunlight. I smell your tobacco smoke." Samantha grinned knowingly. "I see the skull on the mantle...your desk piled high with papers...the umbrella stand with... _that_." Her breath hitched slightly. _The riding crop._  His lip curled. He wasn't going to tell her it was for a case to determine the pattern of bruising on a cadaver  _now_. She licked her lips.

 _He had to stop holding his breath._ "I like to run my fingers over the books and.... _And...Then there's you_." 

Sherlock couldn't process all the data fast enough—she was emanating so much warmth and sensuality. Her face under the blindfold was a mask of serenity.

_"...Sherlock?"_

He realized he'd sat silent for several minutes absorbing everything he’d just heard and she'd grown more than a little apprehensive. He gulped and his voice faltered. "What am I doing?"

She giggled and her face filled with tenderness. "Watching you pace. I imagine you're deducing something. Or playing your violin." Her ears were beet red now. "Sometimes," she swallowed hard. "Sometimes I imagine other things."

Sherlock vaguely realized this was possibly the worst time to get an erection. He was supposed to be asexual. And until he met her he was inclined to agree with everyone’s assumptions about his orientation. Samantha had turned his body into the worst kind of traitor.

"That's why I'm so sorry." She wanted to come back to him. But he couldn’t understand why. After what he’d done there was no conceivable way…unless she was truly damaged.

"Why are you sorry Samantha?" His voice sounded hollow to himself as he tried to repress any emotion.

“I knew what I was doing when I went to see you. When you were high.”

The statement carried so much weight. “Samantha you couldn’t possibly…” he managed to blurt out but she interrupted him.

“I knew you might try to…to fuck me. And that you weren’t in your right mind. But I went anyway because I hoped…hoped you might… want me then…” Her voice trailed off.

Sherlock was very, _very_ glad she was wearing a blindfold as he gaped at her. Samantha did not talk like this. Apparently being at death’s door had done wonders for her communication skills or she’d really lost her grip.

“W-why would you say that?” He stammered breathlessly. There _it_ was again.

She snorted and cocked one eyebrow. “You know you may be exceedingly clever but you’re not a very good liar.”

_False. He was an incredible liar. A superb liar even..._

“Explain.”

“Well, given my…challenges…I’ve had to get a pretty good grasp of psychology. Or I’d have been completely screwed. I’ve had to examine my own motives for years now. So it’s become natural for me to sense the motives of others. I might not have any street smarts—Sherlock I can see you gaping—”

He gasped sharply and she nodded with a laugh. “But I am able to sense when people are doing things they don’t want to do… _feel compelled_ to do. And sometimes why.”

He snickered. “And what have you deduced about me Samantha?” She was getting too cocky and it unnerved him terribly. This line of questioning seemed to have taken a rather ugly turn.

“That you were scared. For me. Of me. Well to be fair, John gave me a hint after you left. But it wasn’t until I got your text that I knew for certain. I don’t know if you used because you were triggered when John gave me morphine the night I was shot. Or if I said some really _intimate_ things to you,” She exhaled deeply and relaxed her shoulders as she laid down the rest of her burden. “But I knew when you asked to see me you would try to push me away. I knew the risk. And I went anyway.” Samantha snorted a little laugh and added, “You men really should stop thinking of me as a simpering victim. It’s really… _frustrating_.”

He was aghast. He understood the words she was saying but somehow he couldn’t comprehend their magnitude. Was she implying _she_ was the one who victimized _him_? _Impossible_.

“Sherlock,” she said sadly, “I’m not Angela right now. If that’s what you’re wondering. But she _is_ a part of me. What she wants I want. And I’m not very good at not getting what I want. I can only imagine what I’ve put you through by waltzing into your life and running amok. You probably thought having a mentally ill sidekick would be hazardous to my health. And yours. And John’s.” She craned her head towards the ceiling and he saw her tears had dried. “Well. You weren’t wrong.”

He realized with awful clarity a woman he thought lacked any capacity of intuitive thought had just given him the lecture of his life.

“I suppose in a way…I wanted to punish you as much as beg you to come back home for my sake. You startled me when you opened the door naked. I have to admit I didn’t expect you to go so far.” She laughed a little maniacally. “I deserved what you did to frighten me. But when I woke up I …I realized I’d pushed you too far. Your face...” Tears began to fall and her voice faltered as she began to keen. “You were _so sad_ …I couldn’t bear it. I tried to leave but…Angela wouldn’t let me. I didn’t want you to see me like that…” She sniffed pitifully, “I am such an ugly person to have done this to you. How could you not hate me for this?”

Well. That was NOT what he’d been expecting at all. The idea of Samantha or even Angela as truly devious had never occurred to him. If what she was saying was true though…

“Please. Say something Sherlock.”

He opened his mouth but no words came out. He was bewildered. How could he respond? _Oh thank goodness you’re just as damaged as me? I'm so relieved I didn’t hurt you?_ While he wholeheartedly subscribed to each of these statements they seemed too callous for the moment.

“I kept your snake.” He rolled his eyes at his idiocy and she opened her mouth, visibly stunned. Well, that felt good. After her disturbingly accurate assessment of him he was getting even.

“Did you name her?” She shot back after a moment. The way she raised her eyebrows made her look more than a little hopeful.

“And what makes you think it’s female?” He grinned a little more broadly.

“Because neither one of us is going to put our hand in that tank to check. And I want it to be a girl.” She said haughtily.

A door behind him swung open and they both froze in shock. Samantha started breathing heavily and her body tensed. “It’s alright Samantha,” Sherlock assured her as best he could. “I’ll handle this.”

“And what _exactly_ do you intend to do Sherlock?” Mycroft chided exuberantly. “I don’t believe even you can reason your way out of that chair.”

Sherlock closed his mouth, which had opened involuntarily and readjusted his paradigm. “Hello, big brother.” He said coolly, grateful Samantha had her eyes covered. It made sense now. Only Mycroft would go to such lengths to annoy him.

Mycroft laughed and stepped aside, gesturing to his companion. _John?_ John never hid anything from him. Or rather John was never able to hide anything from him. The man was transparent as far as Sherlock was concerned. But the puzzle slid together in neat little pieces. _They did this for him_. Even if John warned him Samantha was leaving London he would never have stopped her. In disgust he acknowledged this most clichéd scenario to be fact.

“What if you’d gotten her bloody hurt!” Sherlock railed accusingly. But of course John had been in the next room. If she’d gone into shock he would have been there in a moment. At least John had the decency to look apologetic.

Sherlock watched helplessly as John released Samantha from her bonds and helped her stand. _He wanted to do that part._ John winked at him. _The sod._ She was shaking but seemed unharmed. And rightly confused. Having stepped away from death’s door she returned to her innately shy demeanor. Her cheeks reddened in embarrassment and disbelief but she didn’t _seem_ angry.

He straightened his back and prepared for his release next. He hadn’t decided what fate should befall Mycroft and John yet. He was going to put a _lot_ of thought into it.

“Come along then, John. Let’s leave them to it.” Mycroft waved to John, who deposited a knife in Samantha’s trembling hands. John patted her on the shoulder, nodded to Sherlock with a grin, and jogged after his brother. “Don’t worry, Sherlock,” Mycroft added snidely. “There’s a car outside just for the two of you.”

Samantha stood there appalled by her predicament. Surely given their earlier discussion she’d thought she’d make an airborne escape after they freed her. They knew she’d never leave him there stranded. _How revoltingly clever._

She watched the two men walk out the door and then turned dumbly towards him, looking at the knife in her hand. Wide eyed and thin lipped she made her way over to his chair and began to cut the ropes. This was less than dignified. She was almost done with the first tie when she stopped and stood back up. She laid the knife on the concrete and stepped back.

“Your turn.” She said bluntly.

Sherlock started to whine but caught himself. “I don’t suppose we—”

She shook her head with the faintest glimmer of a smile. She was clearly enjoying this. He’d really hoped she wouldn’t realize he was her prisoner the moment they’d been left alone. _Why did that turn him on so much?_

“Right then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter in part 2! Finally, the really good sex begins.


	32. Boy, I Think You’re Confused, I’m not Persephone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samantha takes advantage of the opportunity to interrogate Sherlock about their relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from Tori Amos' "Pandora's Aquarium"

Samantha marveled. Sherlock was at her mercy. She tried desperately not to laugh when she stopped sawing at the ropes and saw his panicked expression. So adorably discomposed. The expanse of his pale chest gleamed through the tear in his collar. And he was perspiring. _Interesting._ She felt guilty but she knew she’d never have an opportunity like this again. And while he had a firm grasp of his predicament, he seemed to be enjoying himself. Samantha wondered temporarily how far she could push him.

 _Careful dear, or you’ll frighten him._ Angela’s voice whispered in her ear.

 _Where have you been!_ Samantha demanded reproachfully, and then refocused on Sherlock. _Oh. Nevermind_.

 _Heavens to Betsey, Samantha! WhatEVER shall you do with him!_ Angela’s mockery made Samantha laugh despite herself, then lick her lips. The tiniest gasp escaped Sherlock’s throat. _Turnabout is fair play isn’t it?_

 _You know what, Angela?_ Samantha deliberated, _I think it is._ She pulled the other chair in front of the detective and picked up the knife, holding it nonchalantly in her right hand.

“Angela?” His voice waivered.

“Nope.” She smiled sweetly.

“Samantha.”

“Close.”

“You’ve learned to coexist then?” He was obviously desperate to change the subject.

“In a way.” Samantha mused seductively. “Curious?”

Another sharp inhalation of breath, this time much more audible. _“Very.”_

“Hmmmm.” This was fun. “Sherlock…” She allowed herself to coo slightly. “Would you care to explain your intentions with me?” She knew she was channeling her other half but Angela didn’t mind. They were the same person after all. She allowed herself to take in the vision before her—Sherlock squirming as she looked over every inch of his body. Sherlock’s Adam’s apple bobbed nervously. She wondered what his neck would taste like and blushed hotly.

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He _was_ enjoying this. “I really think this would be better discussed elsewhere—”

“Nope.” She watched his eyebrows rise in some alarm as she stretched her arms, pushing her chest out provocatively. “I’m quite comfortable like this.”

He was panting now. But not just with anxiety. Her eyes lingered on the noticeable bulge in his pants long enough for him to see her interest. He muttered something in French under his breath and his nostrils flared slightly. So this is what it’s like to be Angela.

 _This is what it’s like to be you._ Angela corrected her encouragingly. _He called your name. Not mine..._

Samantha cocked her head with a little frown. _Did he now_. She decided to go a step further. “If you won’t talk Sherlock…I have ways.” She stood in front of his knees and leaned over to smell his hair then pulled away. Holy fucking Christ, he smelled divine. His eyes pleaded with her. He _really_ wasn’t good at talking about his feelings. Perhaps she’d have to _make_ him say it.

“Samantha…”

“Hmmm?” She inclined her head before sliding off her shoe and leaning her bare toes against his knee. He struggled against the ropes fervently this time. She wanted to bite that kneecap. _Among other things._ He winced as though he’d registered her thought. Samantha had never been the aggressive type. Certainly never in a sexual way. But a trussed up Sherlock had her wondering why she hadn’t thought of this solution before.

“ _I’m really not comfortable though_.” He begged, and the poor man blushed.

Ultimately this was what pushed her over the edge. She kicked off her other shoe and lifted her skirt delicately before straddling his legs. He was tall enough that her face was only inches above his own. She dropped the knife to the floor carelessly and ran her fingernails through his hair. _So fucking soft,_ she moaned to herself. Wonderingly she searched his eyes before she squeezed her thighs and mercilessly ground her hips against his tented pants. Her victim gasped as he lurched his head backwards from the sudden brutality. His breath fell hotly into her mouth as she watched his expression become more desperate. Had she ever kissed him? Not yet.

“Samantha…please...” He huffed. God he looked wrecked already. When did she learn to think like this? She couldn’t believe what she was doing.

 _It wasn’t me_ , Angela sounded defensively. As though this was a line even _she_ hadn’t crossed. This gave Samantha the courage to explore his body further. She’d really never done this with a man and Sherlock _was_ the perfect test subject. She took her time unbuttoning his shirt—making sure to look up into his eyes after each one was unfastened. The frustration in his expression was readily apparent, but gradually the fire was replaced with something else. Something darker. Sherlock dazedly followed the progress of her fingers as she ran them over his body. She ran a circle around one nipple with her fingertip before impulsively pinching him. Sherlock threw back his head and howled in response, and something coiled tight in her belly as she watched the nipple harden under his shirt. She felt herself grinning. Perhaps she was a sadist after all.

But she was also suffering the ordeal. His erection was rock hard now and it left her aching with emptiness. She realized her arousal had seeped into the fabric of his slacks, marking him as _hers_.

“Need…to hold you…” He whimpered pitifully and she decided she would have mercy on them both. He wasn’t going to be spilling any state secrets about their relationship as long as he was like this. But if she released him the spell would be broken.

Warily she leaned back and removed her tee shirt. Her breasts tumbled out of her bra with one quick snap and her nipples puckered in the cool air. Sherlock squirmed in a desperate effort to reach them with his mouth but she pushed away and stood upright. Sliding down her panties, she came forward on her knees. Forming her fingers into claws she slid them up his thighs, keeping her eyes predatorily level with his as she unzipped his pants and ran her palm over the bulge in his boxers. His cock was rigid under the purple silk and she watched it pulse with raw need. Tentatively she put her hand into the gap and released it from its constraints. His member popped out ferociously, purple and swollen and dripping with anticipation. Sherlock looked thoroughly mortified as she bent her head forward and licked some of his pre-ejaculate from the tip. Oh God. It was delicious. His cock was _magnificent_. It smelled of everything Sherlock and the ache between her legs told her she couldn’t wait any longer. Deftly she stood up and crawled back onto his lap. She kept herself just above striking distance as it was and she leaned in to his face. “Tell me you want me Sherlock.” She lapped her tongue over his upper lip delicately in earnest.

“I want you. Oh please God, Samantha, I want you.” Sherlock looked like he might pass out any minute, and she wasn’t sure if she could hold herself back if he’d said no. Torturing this man had become painful.

She lowered herself onto him and gasped as she felt the fullness of him inside her. Sherlock Holmes was really inside her, stretching her with his cock and filling her completely. She paused another moment to adjust to his size and kissed him passionately. He groaned into her mouth and she felt him twitch expectantly. But she was still in control. She rocked herself, slowly at first and then more quickly, guiding his mouth onto her nipples so she could look down to see where their bodies were joined. God, this felt good. Her legs began to shake and she looked up, only to see Sherlock’s expression shift from passionate to concerned. She nodded her head to let him know she was fine and squeezed his shoulders for support. Sherlock leaned forward and planted a kiss on her jaw before he opened his legs, effectively spreading Samantha’s further apart as well. Samantha whined and she saw Sherlock’s lips twitch ever so slightly in amusement. In an effort to get even she pulled his head back by his hair, exposing his neck to her teeth.

“Fuck,” he panted, wide eyed and clearly taken aback by her enthusiasm. “Samantha?” He asked and she raised her eyes back to his in question. She quirked one eyebrow as if to say “busy”. But he grinned lasciviously and purred, “Touch yourself for me.”

Samantha’s eyes must have blown wide with the request, but before she could consider it’s import she found herself clinging to Sherlock’s hair with her left hand, hiking her skirt up to her stomach with the other in an attempt to give him the best view. It was a tricky business, but once the skirt was secured with her elbow the reward was worth it. They both gazed between them as Samantha traced a circle around her swollen clit and gasped at the influx of sensations that wound into the deepest parts of her. A low, guttural moan escaped Sherlock’s mouth and he began to tremble. “Fuck yes,” he whispered reverently as his breath shuddered. Samantha did it again and watched in fascination how devoted Sherlock was to this spectacle, how much his cock swelled inside her, and how the circles she made with her finger caused her to clench at him harder. The pleasure of the stimulation was nearly unbearable and she whimpered softly, shutting her eyes against the storm of sensations. She could die from this. But her eyes flew open when Sherlock shifted his position with a snarly grunt of frustration. “ _Samantha…I can’t. Please hurry.”_

Samantha nodded and thrust him into her core, grinding against his waist until she could no longer feel her legs beneath her. Everything was just Sherlock. His mouth, his eyes, and his tongue around hers…Samantha felt her muscles draw tight and became suddenly alarmed. She looked into Sherlock’s eyes for reassurance. “Come for me, Samantha,” he panted, nodding his head encouragingly. “I’m here.”

Samantha began to cry out his name, but it died on her lips as the first white wave of pleasure passed over her. She keened in desperation and they both tumbled over the edge into ecstasy. Sherlock whimpered in joy when he released the warmth of his desire into her, kissing her lovingly as she felt the slow pulses of his relief.

They continued to kiss one another fervently for several minutes before Sherlock regained some semblance of composure. “To love you.” He panted. “My intentions.” She was stunned as he buried his face between her breasts. He was so shy and sweet now. She’d gotten the answer to her question apparently. After all, with Sherlock you had to use a bit more persuasion.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I agree, Sherlock Holmes would never say it so easily. But let's just assume he's blissed out on dopamine. Honestly, at this point his character probably doesn't look much like BBC Sherlock because Sherlock doesn't fall in love. (except with John). For that I do apologize as I've done my best.
> 
> I'll be posting the 3rd part to this series soon. There's more sex (thank god) and now more fun romance. I'm sure by now you can tell I really wasn't lying when I said I am a complete amateur. I do not know how to write cases (shocking I know) but I will attempt to do so in next few chapters (which thankfully have gotten longer now that I'm getting the hang of things). It's entertaining if only for how silly it is. I did take inspiration from some canon in at lease one of the next cases though so hopefully (fingers crossed) it's better than the Barne's fiasco. Thanks for reading and bearing with me. <3


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